A Degree and a Half

The cloud stayed on all night, so the night, for once, had nothing to spend.

Eleven at midnight, ten by seven. A degree and a half is all the dark could take with the lid on.

So no fog. Fourth morning I came to the window ready for the white, and got the whole street back: a blind half up, the tram wire to the corner, the far roofs, which were there all week, it turns out.

Grey, yes. Flat as a shelf. But you can count things on it.

Tonight it opens, they say, around eight, and what we kept goes up through the gap, and tomorrow may start white again.

Today you can see a long way because nothing got out.