I raise the blind of the small dormer window.
A night of rain has filled the cast iron gutter.
A jackdaw is perched on the rim sipping.
Suddenly the bird lifts off to join
a clattering of jackdaws mobbing
a buzzard. We are two hundred feet
above the littoral – once under sea
but now mostly pastoral land,
the fields a dull gold in the autumn dawn.
The shore is a mile away – but opening
the window brings the waves’ roar like unending
traffic. The buzzard banks, drops – jackdaws disperse.
Far beyond are Snowdonia’s peaks
and passes: mauves, purples; shadows and mists;
endless dry stone walls; glacial memories.
A perfect rainbow forms between us
and the distant mountains – in the gutter
rainwater still as glass.