Triads

The chill of an attic by night
our breath turned to ice on the pane
raised voices that keep me awake
haunt me again.

Far out on the Firth a ship's light
the drone of a small aeroplane
the sounds sleeping brothers would make
these things remain.

Rare sunsets (the shepherd's delight)
the drip of insistent soft rain
the clatter of gulls at daybreak
joys to retain.

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