Reflections In A Plate-Glass Window Poem by Stephen Brian Brady

the drumming of the hooves
through the branches of the church-yard trees
the Sun-God clatters 'cross the rooves

the listeners cry-out
and the watchmen at the gate
through their narrow slits
in their brick towers
can only sit and wait

some will die
most will crowd into whatever gaps they find
out there
we'll never find a trace

when the glass-door swings
maybe a swish of wings
a curled lip on a startled face
white and bloodless
fading out of place