My back was warmed as I clambered up
From the balmy banks of the hearthfire,
And as I leapt upon the sill to see
Through the glass of my quiet home,
An outer gasp blew through the trees
And shook the raindrops from their heads.

Winter took too many of their limbs,
Cracked them clean into snowdrop clumps
That melted into the rotting copse rinds,
Fresh for the coming of the Spring rain
And the hungry sod of the wet earth;
Such destruction should not have to be.

Now I sit by the ledge and watch,
The scorched heavens’ unholy racket
Through the din of thundering fury;
My elderly master creeps behind me,
His fingers dig trenches in my black fur
And I realize how wonderful it is to be home.