Polystyrene hail flings down
while the sun beats and beats,
nonsensically Scottish
and oddly beautiful –
perfectly framed by the square
of the caravan’s tin window.
A morse code soundtrack
taps itself out on the roof
as I scribble in my notebook.
Pins and needles in my feet,
trapped under the snoring clumber,
but at least they’re warm.
The pencil grinds down to a nub,
pages overflowing in a gush
with thoughts and plots.
Inspiration and imagination unlocked
by the safety and peace
of a home away from home.
The kettle clicks on, their naps are over,
just as ‘the end’ is etched in block capitals.