His rust-wrecked roof with a hole
Big as a fist is replaced by
Zincalum glittering down the valley,

Image of a sundunked tarry road,
Its skin a drum bearing
The four-beat rap of tyres,

The press of adrenalin.
His guttering in turn speaks volumes:
‘Rare gouts of rain are made

For piping down,
And my attendant tiles
Are buttresses against bunting wind.

And I may gently mock
The banging hail, for I sluice it
Into a run-off.

I am sternly-tested zinc. Therefore,
Faith says, I’ll run with
Whatever the sky might spill.’