by Marshall Jamison

High up in the old grey house with its mansard roof, my tiny room under the gabled eaves survived attack by sun, snow and rain. Each took its turn and were regarded and respected alike. The “elements were God’s to use at his command,” my grandfather told me quietly before he took his leave of us. I never found good reason to doubt his word. Never. So at fourteen years of age I wrote this in his memory.

Rain and wind play ’round my window shutters
Singing liquid tunes.
Bells are tinkling in the gutters
Running water croons.
Far off, the distant whistle of a train
Up close, the lovely lullaby of rain.
And your voice telling me with love
The truth which you knew from above
And had the grace to give me —
Carefully and quietly that I might see true
My attic window held a wider view.

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