Those rainbeats on my roof, invading from France, Are the footfalls of countless soldiers Conquering Hastings. A whip of lightning snaps down to the east, The lash of a foreign tongue Annihilating and illuminating. A barrel of thunder rolls across the sky, A drunken Saxon toasting The fact of being not dead. And I am beneath it all, the slates Rattling like a keyboard Telling tall tales.