At a closed window,

looking down onto a Street.

She sits.

A life within mirrors 

and reflections that stare back at her

through finger prints 

and dust.

The soft cascade of sand 

in Time’s tired hour-glass, 

and the Street rushing past her 

both drip,

arrogantly busy

to recede into their new partition.

And the Street doesn’t notice, 

and neither does Time,

that the tremor in her hand 

is shaking her cup.

Or that the tea, 

spilling into her lap,

is already 



22 thoughts on “Window

  1. Another wonderful poem. Love the flow of it which fitted so well with the idea of watching through a window as time slips by. Such a poignant ending too. Thanks for linking to #whatimwriting xx


  2. I really do love your poetry. This reminded me of an old lady who used to live in the flats behind our house when I was about 9. She used to throw sweets out of her window for us. I love the fact that poems invoke feelings. Thank you for linking to Prose for Thought x


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