A window / by Alex Williamson


Now I am not I,

Nor is my house now my house

‘Romance Sonambulo’, Garcia Lorca


He was sitting at a window

Watching the day resolve itself

From the night’s black screen

To the muted green of dawn,


The morning greeting him

With an unruly garden

Which had not yet yielded

To autumn’s chill air.


Night's rain had fallen heavily,

Silvering the unkempt lawn.

Tussocked grass, clawed at

By roiling coils of bramble,


Gnawed by clumps of moss,

While apologetic poppies

Shook their sorry bonnets

Amid the raw jags of nettle.


He was looking at an apple tree

Planted by some unknown other.

Branches chafing in the wind.

Rueful fronds. Last leaves left.


A few sad apples

Clinging on, inelegant baubles

Pecked by crows, springing skywards

As the birds took flight,


Carcasses littering the lawn

Like carrion. He was listening

To the house coming back to life,

Soft noises in its deep recesses,


Bringing new colour

To the cold light of day,

As he praised his good fortune,

Found gratitude in small mercies.


He was sitting at a window

In the house he owned,

No more his than the sun

Prising apart the clouds,


Casting the table in white light

In this house he had restored,

Saved from ruin, and made

The view he now beheld


Momentarily endure.