Window

A cold breeze is in the air.

The only light is from the streetlamp that finds itself

In an intersection of back street paths;

Its brightness shatters into a thousand blurred dots.

It’s raining.

Houses bound both sides of the thin alleyway,

Their rooves seeming level with the glass.

Sometimes they are covered in snow or frost

And look like fields of white.

Mostly it is just the slate which one sees

The one, single, continuous colour.

Its continuity brings peace.

The houses extend along to each side

To the right, cut off by a road

To the left, they stretch seemingly forever

Only by leaning out can one see the end.

There is something uncertain about that place.

Only by reaching out

By creating a risk

Can one see the end.

If one does not intervene, then they truly are endless.

Magical.

Moss grows in the garden below

In contrast with the bare concrete floor

It is tough, but the plants still find a way

Working up through cracks and crevices.
It climbs up the wall.

Atop the wall,

One often sees a cat.

Not a single cat, but a different cat each time

They traverse the garden walls with ease

Their balance perfect.

They mark the serenity of that place.