Conservatory rain

All the junk upstairs
is rising up against my tyranny.
Though tied to its affairs
I get tired of its company.
Full of fists and prayers
I abandon the country.
I come downstairs, put on French coffee,
punch up the phone and sleep in the conservatory
to the pretty patter of rain on the roof
like a pearl necklace breaking over the worktop.
I think of something slightly spoiled, and the proof
is the leak near the drainpipe - the hop, hop, hop.