Not a favourite chore, not ever on any to-do list in
summer for explicable reasons, or grievances y’d
gladly put your name to; its bloody hot up there. A
10 minute madness to endure - and no guarantee
it wont need to be done again. Vents rotate free in
breeze extracting hot air from that cavity between
ceiling and roof, sometimes they need oiling, and
sure, y’d never think it easy to do - even in winter
It’s this dimension’s hell hole incarnate, existence
indicated by a raunchy susurration which, if winds
persist, rises to a howl oscillating manically; can’t
ignore it, subliminally infiltrates nerve-cells like its
rabidly diseased, & with the storm coming I’m not
left with options to freely deliberate
So we do it, ascent into hell by a teetering trestle-
ladder, hatchway at furthest end from this operatic
vent means we’ve embraced full sentence and no
remission, CRC in hand of torch-glow brightened
funereal-clamber, crouch-eased thru beams and
joists in rodent space - already sweat-drenched
But its done, in wonderment it ceases to shriek,
probably can’t believe yours truly had gall such to
spray it from beneath - of no dignity or panache a
vent recognises with the right to dispute, even if
the remedy suits - but it murmurs - you ain’t free
yet bozo, there’s quite a way back to the hatch
Made it - sure and safe, home free; the singing
silenced for the time being, venting no agonies
we’re aware of; but certainty has a longer route
than the sweaty trip ‘up top’ - thunder’s already
rumbling applause while the northerlies all but
stopped - and now we await the rain …
© 29 October 2013, I. D. Carswell
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