Woman at the Window Part One (formally called Winter Shadows)

From nursery to parlor,

she runs with childish glee.

A little girl and her rag doll,

wait expectantly.

Father’s coming home again,

she can see him at the gate.

So run across the court yard.

The child that could not wait.

  

He picks her up,

he spins her round.

He put’s her down again.

Father and daughter,

are laughing in the rain.

And mother at the window,

waits so patiently.

For the man she never loved,

in a world that leaves her empty.

 

When father goes a way again,

they’ll be waving from the gate.

She will tell her little rag doll,

‘Mummy say’s you must wait’

And the days will pass so slowly

Until fathers’s home again.

And all she will have is a memory,

of laughter in the rain.

  

From the frightened little girl,

who did not understand.

To the woman at the window,

who’s past slid from her hand.

Eyes that tried to say so much,

where often misunderstood.

In an adults world of lies,

It is a lonely childhood.

  

  

Woman at the Window Part Two

 

Some where in your memory,

there’s a frightened little child.

Searching through the debris

you pause for awhile.

Every room in this old house,

is steeped in past events.

(You can) bolt and bar every door,

but that won’t help in your defence.

  

Your fathers portrait in the hall,

his photo on the ceil.

Now faded by the winter sun,

can you hear him calling still?

Calling from the court yard,

over grown with weeds and brier,

and delicate winter roses,

silk petals that burn like fire.

  

So you walk to the summer house,

were once you laughed and played.

Now drenched in winter shadows,

cast long by the fleeting day.

And gazing through a broken pain,

across the quiet lake.

Why did you return?

Was it just for old time’s sake.

 

From the frightened little girl,

who did not understand.

To the woman at the window,

who’s past slid from her hand.

Eyes that tried to say so much,

where often misunderstood.

In an Adults world of lies,

It was a lonely childhood.

©2005