They crept around under the eaves.
Weevils and bugs, within their thatched rugs.
The old wooden roof, all damp and so miserable.
Covered dense dressed in ivy leaves.
The tears of the rain, poured out their emotions.
While the wind cries Mary and swears sweet devotions.
Over the thatch and down through the cracks.
It's weight did increase, was the hold of the rain.
Cold and wet,  it so suffered it's pain.
The torture of the village thatch,
where birds nests live and sweet chicks hatch.
Hearing nothing, but the  incessant drips as they crashed to the ground.
(c) Livvi