Drips land on the window sliding
down a raggedy path, splotching an uneven
trail. Undulating smears on the glass from
drying distended drops.

There’s Mrs Wilson heading
to the shops, passing old Mrs Jacobs
bent, yet in a hurry. Each pinned beneath black
umbrellas angled to the wind. Skinny frames wrapped
in spinach like old coats. Cold poker legs move
robotically on. Unaware of our malignant
disease.

Falling heavily – splash, splatter,
halts and moves again edging towards
the finish line of each extended spoke. Like me,
each nears the cliff drop.

Shortly there’ll be a puddle this side
of the sill. You have to accept the storm
is lost  and these frames lie ditched in paint,
the acrylic **** wall breach.

People say it’s a journey that old men make
tracking back to when we just reached windows
kneeling. Then moisture evaporated
waved farewell left a lace like pattern.

Now we stand distanced from the glass
reflecting on what was lost back then as
we smell that stench of wet rot. Water has
seeped beneath the frame while I’ve
been standing here misty eyed.

Again, that almost magnetic grip loosens
as the window tilts in the wind and bumps
me into touch. Crumpled I look up to the stained glass
wondering.