Untitled

Another sketch.

Windows. Windows you remember peering out of.

Feet on worn throws. Windows you don't.

The window you're left gazing out of now.

The shelves strewn, littered with books, frames and china statuettes.

Winter it's hold.

Spring, that strong, clear morning light stretched taught across the playground

as tiny feet writhed amongst the concrete.

The shadows stark were individual creatures of their own.

Summer, the upturned furniture, it's stiff limbs flailing in the air 

strewn with blankets and throws.

Make-shift ships. Make-shift bunkers.

Autumn, another school year, precocious you sensed time was slipping.

Christmas and a line of children skirting the assembly hall,

damp palms outstretched, clutching Christingles, the small flames flickering and red ribbons trailing.

Winter, it's hold.

Reviews

[Poeticadia]

A fantastic portrait of the seasons with some unique and intriguing details that give the poem a special character of its own. I like how everything comes back around to winter; inside looking out of the window at the world outside.