WINDOWSILL
A red light flashes,
On the roof of an office block.
It’s 10pm and whole floors are still illuminated.
I wonder which,
Of the thousands of lights
Dotted across the inky skyline
Correspond.
In a dimly lit bedroom,
Somewhere barely visible
To my insignificant eyes,
Is there a person,
Heavy with the enticing pull of sleepiness,
Waiting for their lover,
To finally turn out their office light
And fall asleep at their side?
Late on a Sunday evening,
Is there a parent,
In the harsh light of their kitchen,
Preparing meals for a child
Who must eat alone this week;
Dinner with family being a luxury
Only afforded by those who do not work a 50 hour week.
And yet, a few streets away,
A manager enjoys the comforting weight of a deep sleep,
Cocooned in the reassuring arms
Of a goose-down duvet,
And the knowledge that their staff
Will work harder than them,
Whilst money trickles steadily
Into their bank account.
So on an October night,
When the first hints of winter
Wrap their icy fingertips around the city,
As I sit on my windowsill into the early hours,
I wonder,
Which meaningless little light out there
Is mine?
When my mind wanders
And I have created lives behind
Every pane of glass,
Has anyone thought about me?
Can anyone feel the fresh, cold air
On their anonymous face,
And picture that same breeze
Sending a chill through my body
As it gently steals the warmth
From my fingers and toes?
Guided by the impossibility
Of ever knowing
I continue to write,
Sat solitary on my windowsill,
Observing the city from above,
With the glowing embers of a hope
That I am not alone.
Transforming with Poetry 