There was a wise grandmother
Who looked at the sky
She could see the week’s weather
Without seeming to try
She knew if a storm was coming
As plants stood firm and braced
And house sparrows flew at speed
When to their eaves they raced
Crooked clouds hung heavy
Tobacco-coloured and dark
She smiled when she noticed
Lightning’s first spark
The outside world fell silent
As thunder rumbled on
And she made herself comfy
In the hole she called home
The Mansionic Perspective 
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