There’s a window in the cellar
unhinged, laid flat:
on trestles rested, waiting for repair.
Plywood seals the crooked casing
it used to occupy:
a darkened room now left within.
Faced outside up,
the lattice is reduced to scrabble board,
blank squares unplayed by daylight’s dreams.
Dusty with sanding, work in hand:
that rotten corner sawn away,
a new one mortice-made.
Precision joinery, glued and screwed.
With kneaded putty,
cracking chamfers are renewed. Knotholes filled
When – at last – all primed and painted
then lifted back in place,
we'll see again through panes undimmed.
And over courtyard cobbles, etched
in moonshine, gaze
until our limpid eyes no longer ache.