The tiles get picked off one by one,
A fresh void left with each setting sun.
Some chipped, some smashed, by a bygone foe,
Most intact, though weathered, still good to go.
Row by row they disappear,
Like yarn pulled from a shawl so dear.
But go, they must, despite their state,
The Grim Reaper eager to clean the slate.
Powdered terracotta between our fingers slip,
Effortlessy evading an ever-tightening grip.
Til our gaze does shift as we near the end
To the next gen tiles that our roof will mend.
Dr. Ian D’Souza