"C'mon thunder"
James' call peals
Off moulded iron
Awned by night
Leafy wreaths
Gathered at his feet
Pass tiny threads of blood
Evidence, if needed,
Of weeping
The roof's return
Remains mute while
Four pads on tin
Gently find their beam
He won't get down now
Till he's heard
What he's come to learn:
A single awful clap.
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