The slatted Window

A whorled silhouette
Beyond the doorway
Etched into the pane.

A chill tarries
Around wooden tables
Beneath the wicker vases.

Bony fingers turning blue
As I linger
Within an oaken frame.

Tendons crack, bones stretch
Night’s gloom overthrown
With Tyburn’s lot.

Remnants of the night
From the walls; a seeping light
As colour steps from the plaster.

The warped silhouette
Melts from the glass
Without a trace

Through mirror less slats
Old cinder’s ash
Propping up the fence.

Subdued branches holding
Bloodless pines, shivering
Like me.