Wind has gotten up,
must have overslept.
On the coals up north all night if you ask me:
leaving bad leaves on the lines,
hazards strewing huge bleak,
Whistling down closes, windswept
cloisters, alleys and avenues,
soft, flyblown parades and promenades.
The North and the people are tough, soft things.
They can take it, like cockneys in the Blitz
or Peter Sarstedt in empty Biarritz.