To the red head in the window.

I didn’t see your face,

as well as I would have liked.

But, my being on the street

and you in a second floor window,

staring just didn’t seem right.

But, it was 7am and the sun was rising

and there we were, two red heads alike,

already risen.

You, in all black, and I, wrapped up in wool.

The wind wasn’t howling,

in fact, the air was still.

But, it was cold

and you had your windows closed

to the world.

I would have liked to have asked

‘What woke you?’

Your hair was already pulled back,

severe and contained.

‘What drew you to the window?’

with empty hands and curtains peeled.

Our eyes never met

and yet, in you I saw the woman I always see,

it was nothing to do with red solidarity,

but the way your skin paled pastel