On my ceiling there is a crack.

A track that splits the plasterboard

just by the light.

One night, after beers and whisky

I lie, shivering on the settee,

only me, and a thin sheet.

Until I hear the beat. Beat. Beat.

On my ceiling there is a crack.

And now the thwack! of water beading,

weeding its way between the plaster.

Faster it falls down,

but don’t worry, I won’t drown.

On my ceiling there is a crack.

It’s open now.

There’s no going back.