The weather is at war And crouches, brooding, on the hill-top Before beginning its relentless march Towards the house. I stand at the window And watch motionless, the only sound The resolute ticking of the grandfather clock Steadfast in near silence My only companion In the impending struggle soon to break Against the walls of this ancient house Centuries old. Daring to speak The house groans at the memories of past battles As trees in the field are brushed aside And cowed. In screams of anger Rain hurls itself at the windows And the wind scratches at the door Desperate to break in And scared, I step back, And turn. Stopping. Confronted by the clock, The aged custodian of this home Who will never flee. Older than the house He has seen the storms before Yet continues his defiant stare And the winds is hushed As the rain ceases. The storm, recognising its old adversary In deferance and respect Retreats.