Window
Her hand reaches through a slim shaft of
morning sunlight falling across a goldsmith’s
window on the corner of a 1930s block
in the centre of town eighteen months
into the war, double prams crammed on buses
buckling under the press of human flesh,
passengers peeling off and climbing on,
skirting that one couple pressed to the glass
of a goldsmith’s window watching
jeweller’s fingers reach in for the ring they
have chosen to bind them against the storm,
brilliant new growths erupting from
the freak conditions of their existence.