I stand at the sash window,
Looking out on clear moonlight;
In the middle of the city,
But in the silence of the night.
The distant hum of a motor;
Leaves rustle in the breeze,
But the houses stand so still
On this August ‘summer’ eve.
The silhouettes of rooftops
Etched out upon the hill,
Victorian homes and Georgian ones;
Framed through the windowsill.
I stand here, quiet with wonder,
Looking out upon the night –
Bay windows and some sash ones,
Burning with an amber light.
These streets hold so much history
Of generations before,
Before they were converted
And whole families roamed four floors.
The chimney stacks remain,
Though no smoke now will you see,
From our little attic flat;
My first home at twenty three.
But, just for one moment,
When outlines are all I can see,
I pretend it’s 1921
And how these streets would be.
Those amber lights in the windows,
Are open fires burning bright;
As children sit with homemade toys
And wooden tops bring such delight.
The dim Victorian street lamps
Which now watch over parked cars,
Would navigate the way
For a motorbike and cart.
I stand at the sash window
Upon which the whole moon shines,
And realise that these city streets
Will stand the test of time.