every window a wall, every wall a window

norman clark from an upstairs window

i am

sent outside

to play

on this dove grey sunday morning

even the sun is cold

behind me my mother

watches from the upstairs window

her sight of me

framed by

cream and butter yellow curtains

filmed with coal soot

and soft with dust

.

i like to let my sight of the world

be framed

by the garden walls

each moss-coated brick

has stories

of migrations

flowerings

fairy tales

but even the walls are silent

caught

like me

in the hollowness

of this day

.

the ground is frost hardened

and tumbling with hummocky grass

if he were still here

it would have flattened

under the weight

of his lawn roller

each blade

would have known the sharp snick of his shears

.

the sudden flapping of wings

draws my eyes skyward

where tendril branches

grope across the grey expanse

each in search of its opposite

the wind is the music for a sort of dance

and i find my own arms and legs

waving and flailing

until

self-conscious i stop

and slowing my breathing

pat the dog's head

he looks at me

with orange-brown eyes

as if seeking something

i think that if he could speak

he'd explain so much of all of this

.

the cold finds its way past my clothes

so i turn and open the door to the shed

inside

the darkness is comforting

a single window leaks light

onto workbenches

furred with shavings

the sweet smells of cedar

and machine oiled metal

weave in orange and blue threads

i sit on the floor

and think of my father

and my grandfather

they worked here

they both dreamed of the inexplicable immensity

of this place

this world of worlds

within and without

bisected by the single thin thread of work

sitting on the floor

of the wooden shed

i sit still and listen

to the sounds

rising from other gardens