creative writing, love, poetry, rhyme

Through the window.

window


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.


livingthroughlines 2017.

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