Your windows are not like my windows;
your windows care nothing about public opinion.
Your windows are high-born and sashed,
flung up wide, spurning net and blind,
silly little louvres and prissy gold keys,
and small sad stickers saying I Check ID,
and every cringing and conscripted and servile
curtsey to respectability. Your windows stretch
and arch, greet the seasons like cats,
quiver for spring, shimmy for summer,
bristle for autumn. Your windows
wear the rain like goose pimples
on skin rubbed at odds to the grain,
and smell cold and sooty as snow.
Your windows are single-glazed, Georgian,
lethally dangerous, clear-eyed.
They admit the sun to rows of books,
they yield a field of wit and knowing.
My windows are glass in name only;
they are deaf and nearly mute. They muffle,
bend light, repel glances with a plastic glare.
My windows are swagged with drapery,
and yours are shamelessly, brazenly bare.
I display some nylon flowers in a vase,
craving approval from all quarters,
and your window laughs and laughs and laughs.
“Your Windows” by L Thompson received a special mention in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (August 2017) judged by Oz Hardwick.
Thompson lives in Belfast and has been writing for a number of years. She has had poems published in Cannon’s Mouth and Ware poets.