I've been reading Henry Shukman's 2002 collection, In Doctor No's Garden. Outside the wind has picked up and it looks as though we're in for a blustery night. I picked up Shukman's book where I'd left off and read;
The storm has the lane rippling and smoking.
The sky has come apart, scuds by in pieces.
Telephone wires belly between their poles...
That's the beginning of his poem Storm Lines. Most of the poems are narratives with effective lyrical interjections, and when he gets descriptive, I can see, hear and touch his images. It's been an enjoyable read.
It's taking me about five minutes to write even the simplest sentence tonight. Time for bed.