Bare yellow walls,

painted white sill.

Books, lining hall,

bed without frill.

 

Curtains drawn closed,

windows sealed shut.

Still air, unbreathed;

intimate dust.

 

Scuffed, neat slippers,

knocked eye-to-eye;

kipper draped socks

hung up to dry.

 

An old wet room

tiled as flesh pink:

toilet, shower,

flannel and sink.

 

Cupboard cups cracked,

plates piling high.

Tilting pots stacked.

taps, twisted dry.

 

Cheap, dented tins,

dated with guilt;

fancy fridge things

black as the milk.

 

Nobody grieves.

Door hung on latch;

tobacco leaves.

Medicines packed.

 

Tea cupped round stains.

Skin shrunk to bone.

Burrowed eyes lame:

man, home alone.

 

Hair coarse as seeds,

clothes grown in moss.

Elbows now weeds:

face, melting frost.

 

 

 

 

Sawdust for feet,

plywood for nails.

Skin sucked to seat.

Head shrunk to veil.

 

Controls remote,

remains on seat;

body now bled,

sat up to great.

 

All home alone.

Time made to kill.

Still, silent phone,

pension paid bills.

 

Visitors come,

too late to dine;

cleansing the wound,

trespassing time.

 

Sorting the mess.

Marking the list.

Memory games.

Remains of missed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sign up to our Mailing List

Sign up to receive communications from Creative Future, including opportunities, updates on activities and more.

Scroll to Top