High on a rooftop out in cold soft rain,
Where the day’s morning to silence falls.
Two companions converse and wait
Shaded behind a dry stone chimney tall
With a long Bottle of last night’s wine
As in such quite, much fleeing water falls
Across chipped and cracked red tiles
A first floor’s ceiling leaks below
While these morning winds now pickup
Their once soft voices begin to grow
When daybreak’s lightening dances
To these quick, these gradual waking tunes
Echoing of forgotten past Spring thunder
The stack’s grand shadow keeps them dry
Two companions high on a rooftop
Remembering the many long days spent
Those days in Scotland, Ireland and Wales.
A poem for those days when the weather reminds us of the stories.