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.