Weak Scottish sun streamed
and pattered
through the fractured glass
like rain,
and in the sordid sound of gusts
throttled
by the window panes
my knees took urge to sorely bend,
shatter on ancient stones
and then,
my cold-chapped fingers fused
to trembled out a prayer,
as if thin hope could mend
a five-year sin,
as if God was always there.
