Looking through the window at the mosses on the ridgetiles
on the rooftop of the workshop where I earn my daily bread
I see them cling precarious, coloured various, quite gregarious
with persistance for existence and resistance, never dead
They hang tightly to the cement in between the half-round clay-pots
gaining foothold from the roughness that the gritty sand provides
and if a piece should tumble off dislodged by clumsy pigeons
down the terracotta pantiles to the troughing then it slides.
A heavy rain will float it like a boat toward the downspout
where it drops down to the bottom, getting stuck there on the sides
and if another lump of moss should follow in its footsteps
then they'll both get tightly jammed there and a blockage it provides
and so, in heavy weather gear, I'll be having to dismantle it,
'cause water's overflowing and its running down the walls.
and I'm feeling unappealing, my blood pressure's hit the ceiling
'cause the water's running down my neck like Niagara-bloody-Falls