High Windows

I scrambled to Tito’s
Looking for something to lift accretions
To overcome curves and profiles
Something to lessen and smooth
To strip and ameliorate
To leven the load and speed the plough

No sooner arrived than the sky
Like a rotten sack
Split and spewed
It’s gouts and knots of rain
While I studied
With growing panic
The spec of a random orbital sander

Back home at HQ it lashed on
The car’s fan gone
The track’s knobbly direction
Subverted by clewy leaf-fall
The familiar now fogged
As I swiped at misted glass
Oblivious to clarification

Windows waited on me
Long-suffering portholes
Shuttering battered light
Framing freezing night
Broken by extremes
Dazzled and worn they waited
High windows and low
I loped bent-backed from the car
Just another eight to go