Sport 28: Autumn 2002
The Window Cleaner's Dream
The sun throws out a sheet of swinging light,
casts it away from this tower in the city.
The canopy flaps white, and settles
down, like cloth spread out across a table.
I raise my head in admiration, attempt to call
but my voice is thrust back in my face
by the double glazing I am cleaning
so that the inmates can look out and see the sky.
But there is no sky. In a temper of deception
it has vanished, been replaced by mirrors—
silver and blue, that echo the remaining view
and quietly go on and on reflecting.
And I can't quite believe it, the laying
of the high-up table, and just when ready,
the spread of covering whisked away
to leave the places rattling and empty,
just a seagull or two cutting a decisive arc.
Still, down below, people are mysteriously moving,
and cars—a blue then a red one—follow on,
emerge from out the body of the hill
so consecutive it surely has been planned,
worked to a point of spontaneous perfection.
Full of sleights of hand today, the city pivots,
palming objects in and out, between the buildings.