Osprey, Quickstep

Who do you sash windows serve?
The inhabitant, leaning on his sill
like the luck-out at a dog track,
his cigarette a winning forecast?

You're too empty - you bring
no Elysian fields to this fallen
king; only the sprigs between herringbone
bricks reach like Jonah
from beyond giant's ribs

Who then?
The lover, who comes
under the rose trellis, eyes
spooning the light
from an oil lamp, hair
a fusillade?

You're too inelegant - you make
her raise her knee too high,
and bend her neck - hyenastrut
across you for her rendezvous,
look ugly for her partisan

Who then?
The scorpion, who, sheltered from the wind,
guards against the rumours
of his own eyes, of swifts passing
like clock hands, and murmurs
himself to sleep beneath the stone
with, "Ils ne passeront pas,
Ils ne passeront pas"?

You're too tempting, too easy
A knife-slip trips your latch, permits
intruders like a draught, to press
vintage from his hour-dark fields

Who then, house-proud windows,
wave-breakers, alloy of sun,
windows who were here before
all of us?
Is it me - is it me you serve?
I who break against you
from each side, not
for the sake of country, or love,
but to be broken,
and broken again?