Mosses

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