The head in the window

I sat in the car whilst it sat in the window
And stared down at us in the street
Its glassy eyed look reflected the sun's glow
Through the glass of its window ledge seat.

The head was of paper, in fact, papier-mache,
Pink painted to look just like skin.
I wonder, in this street, if there is some cachet
In windows with heads sitting in.

It's a quite eery feeling to see that head peering
And gauging street life as it looks.
Is each person and vehicle as they're appearing
Recorded in his secret books?

Or does he just sit and secretly ponder
Philosophical thoughts on this place?
Of matters like this I can only wonder
As I stare at his motionless face.

Why was he made and who was it made him?
I don't suppose I'll ever know.
Such things can be planned or result from some whim:
I suppose it will always be so.

It's amazing that such a pink model head
Arouses in me so much thought;
My queries unanswered even by the well-read
On this vision that I never sought.

So farewell paper head, now in verse made immortal -
You'd think I might choose different theme.
But in truth I came out by some very strange portal
Where nothing was quite what it seemed.



We had driven to visit someone in Park Avenue, Hull and I parked just outside the building where she resided. As I switched off, my wife drew my attention to a papier mache model head in an upstairs window peering out into the street. She said it had given her a start as she noticed it and for a moment thought it might be a real person. The eyes were open and large, white against the pink of the face. I decided to write a line or two about it as we wondered what its history was. The question will never, I guess, be answered.