Window-gazing
- Terry Hodgson
- 6 hours ago
- 1 min read
At a quiet end of day and year,
Through a sky of porcelain blue,
A plane buzzed like an insect,
Travelled south, drilling the distance.
The plants below stood peaceably in pots,
Children darted on the frosty lawn;
Water clattered in the pipes; voices
Hummed; a coal-tit flickered by.
Then a flute began to play. How often?
How often in that room had he
Sat thus, anguished by distance,
Warmed by serenity?
The house creaked, feet knocked,
A voice shrilled; the moment was gone.
It would return. The flute's
Insidious beauty played on.
©Terry Hodgson2025
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