You sit in a world
of framed, glazed words
crazed by age and patinas passed
down through dust
to their livid surfaces encrusted,
windows, once filled in
by the coloured eye
of living minds
worlds that blow and howl,
heaving or lean in quiet serenity
buildings, old and threadbare
flag draped, quietly disposed
in forgotten corners, older worlds
where meadows moan, paddocks slow swaying
with Autumn grass, turning cold
into the folds of mountains
winds up there, rend trunks raw
bare and twisted
gnarled by the old, barking and hacking
in their slab huts cold, crudely daubed
All these worlds from a chair
in the quieted still of a spinning universe
All these men and ships, and mountain springs
dulled cows, and vanished horses, gone
while over there- a window on
a white sailed sea serene
disappears over the horizon
to a land never seen
find this gallery of windows,
wherever your are
past or present,
near or far.
