The Weeping Windows Poem by Martin Ward

The ghost
of a face,
shattered
behind the pane,
of terrace, hall
or tenement,
remains.

Weeping windows:
timeless; touched
and untouched
by technological gains
in warfare or glass.

Fingers orchestrate sounds
like rubber on glass:
a vain attempt
to see through the pane.
Condensation rivulets
move slowly; halting
before the fall.

A knock
could take away
the face.

Some mothers
have been
torn out
and replaced
by UPVC.
Others remain,
cold against
the winter rain.

Home fires
in hearths
radiate heat
to burning cheeks,
but might as well
be obsolete:
useless near sills
oficy glass,
where they sit,
waiting still.