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.
iii. 2022
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