The lintel is wonky and every time we stick our heads out, it threatens to crash down on us. Those on the other side gaze up from under the sun with wary pause, afraid to look in and suffer a blow, the wall tumbling down with billowing dust and red brick.
The lintel is wonky and cracked. The pressure on the frame below became too much, cracking and sagging and crumbling. Hairline fractures turn to splinters and give way to cracking glass which held its place but not for long.
The lintel is wonky and chipping away with plasterwork meeting the ground below. Gaping holes begin to form in the surrounding walls, wide enough for a small finger; for daylight. The cracks spread upwards, outwards, with masonry disappearing, weeds assuming its place.
The lintel is wonky and giving way. The glass is now gone, giving way to birds and breeze. Floor boards warp ‘neath the puddles as clouds reflect their migration. The new air fills our lungs and outside voices dance in our ears.
The lintel is wonky and descending quicker, as children’s’ bouncing balls shudder the wall like a joyful jack-hammer fuelled by laughter. The tree sprouting from between crumbling floor boards stretches towards widening gaps in bricks, hungry for light and sky.
The lintel is falling and we all stand watching, aware that all that’s kept us from one another is history.