Fragments of a Stained Glass Window A broken box of glass I found lies on a shelf in my house, a shattered memory that I'm unable to throw out, it sits in an old shoe box from a pair of trainers I bought 10 years ago, sometimes I open it and look at all the pieces. I wonder what it used to be, where it was from and how it came to be broken. I imagine it was a stained glass window standing tall in a church, the light illuminating through it with a sea of colours and I stare up from the pew at the picture, scarcely able to hold my gaze under its brightness. Squinting, the picture appears unclear but it seems familiar to me me, as if its something I have seen before but every time the memory comes to me it fades like a mirage, like that moment between when you're half awake and half asleep, still connected to your dreams and believing you can fly. I stare at the shards of glass in a box with that same feeling of connection, I see the shattered myriad of colour and its like a puzzle that I've solved before, like I can sense what it should be but the front cover of the box has been lost, and there's no edges, and all the pieces are the same shape. I search for the colours in the box and lay them down together, each one speaks a different story to me. The deep red pieces of glass that swirl before me as if a Pinot Noir has forever been trapped within the glass that once held it, unable to break free so that its goodness can once again be tasted. The green glass seems to sway in the breeze the same way grass blows in the wind and I feel the cold chill of the blue as it cuts through like wind blowing along the touchline of football pitches as the supporters grip their gloves tightly and bury their noses into the top of their jackets. The black glass consumes the light like a darkness and as I gaze its nothingness I can hear the light waves bouncing from side to side on the glass, ringing out like keys on a piano. Just as the sirens call the fisherman to the rocks so I too find my hands reaching out to grasp the glass and hold onto the memory it holds and as my fingers touch its surface my head tells me it should be cold but I feel its warmth radiate through my body like the sun poking through the clouds on an autumn day or the touch of a loved ones hand, and in that moment I grip onto the feeling tightly and my hand clenches but as it grips round the sharp fragments I feel the pain course through my fingers, the pieces cut through my imagination and I'm brought back into my room, staring at that dusty box of glass in the corner, as the stain glass window flickers away in my mind.