by Liz Trew
She bends and lifts, opens and stretches her arms,
sways and swoops wide circles across the glass
then rubs her cloth into the corners
of the large middle pane and its narrow pair each side.
She turns and steps up her ladder, lifts one leg
behind her, tilts forward then lifts the other
rises and swipes the air to reach the top-most piece
of glass, swoops and sways, weaves and waves
pausing to fold, shake out, refold her cloth.
I return with a mug of coffee and see she’s still there
dancing her window cleaning dance.
Then she lifts up the middle sash high and slams it shut.
Glass glints in our street
while I, the watcher, look through my grimy window
to take one last look at the unknown woman
in the house opposite
before she withdraws and puts back her net.