Rear Window

Rear Window

In the dim glow of a Birmingham evening,
I sit behind a cracked pane, a private screen.
The city spills its neon lights,
The world a tapestry of private scenes.

Through the dusty glass I spy a cottage,
Its garden a mosaic of dainty tubs and roses.
A figment of life that glows –
A mundane reality, yet, a story only a voyeur can choose.

The street below bursts with cicadas and sighs,
Carriages of the night pass in a humming lullaby.
I track each footstep, each glance,
The ordinary, turned extraordinary, in every face.

The film weaves a tapestry of hidden drama –
Is that couple arguing about a posh pension scheme?
A neighbour squabbles over a pigeon,
And the old councilman, Mr. Widdershins, towns letters to his cat.

I, as a solitary cat, witness a crime,
A flicker of the moon behind a maze of cables.
The world is a canvas of proper seconds,
Struck by the elegiac radiance of hope.

In the theatre of the back‑stairs, I keep my faith, The mundane life is a stage where longing steady Ablon.
In an age where the elementary detective museum Takes the stage, I'm ready to think that there is a mystery about the end of lanterns.