Diana Webb

Flash

The chandelier shop is finally sold and about to close down. Prisms by the bagful in the window, ready for dispatch. On so many occasions, I have stood in this spot by the pane, when the angle of sunlight has been just right; on a wall, on a painted sky, on an antique mirror's edge, the linger of tiny sevenfold visions. Now the old owner takes the last chandelier down the street to a different retail space, its crystals tinkling the end of an era.

faded timetable
on the bus stop
a spider's thread gleams