Poetry

Slate Roof

We’re stood at the window in the slate roof
in North Wales; there’s a seagull on the chimney
bigger than my brother crouched in pyjamas
and we spit onto the slate roof in the dark
and it glistens in white gobs—perhaps on the night
before he threw the shell at my head—
seeing whose spit will reach the gutter first.

Then she comes in suddenly with Orlando
laughing; she’s in a long skirt and he’s shaved his head,
just like when they got back to the car laughing,
me pretending to be asleep in the back,
and went and parked it at the top of the street
where you could see the whole town.

Ruth Yates