Sitting: within the scent of embers where the last of smoke-blued sun-rays run along their slanting path through glass. And catching colour from the claret, patch the matching eastward -leaning shadows with their shafts of wine-stained sun. Listening: to voices gleaning decades as they send their memories back for names retained in half-light where the legends end. Restoring half-forgotten plots to epics. Calling people in from silence. Shadows blend with light again. Thinking: that, although contracting days match hands that time has shrunk and shaken as it passes, (hands that spill a little of the wine in pouring) years stand still within these tellers. Stories colourful as claret pour from minds as clear as glasses.