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
