For two years now, off and on – as rain will, and
good/bad fortune – water has leaked down the wall
beneath the conservatory ceiling, my later-aged edifice
from retirement funds [early
though, let’s be clear],
and echoes of its rivulets mark the paint where it has
run splayed lines to a ridge above the door to let
fall its precious droplets: if they were somewhere less
wet. Like much else in this life, I ruminate on that
relative thought, and today as it pours and a single
line dribbles along an old groove – continual repairs
making their own gradual mark – there is plenty of
rain here to compensate for an unusually hot and dry
summer where weather mocks all our attempts to be in
control, like a roof allowing water its ingress and stain.
Fab-as per!
ReplyDelete