heavy beat
of the
clock -
the missing
plume of
cigarette smoke
gentle rising –
no fire in her
grate.
An
empty chair
sits soaked
with her
form
its
threadbare arm
from a
million
gentle strokes.
Dust burdened
bookshelves
stand
ridiculously redundant.
Her radio
silent
whilst cheap-
priceless trinkets
parade from
some other age.
She had chuckled
“I eat no more then
a Bird now
Son…….
no more then
a bird”.
No welcoming
kettle rattling
on
cooker tops
no
imperceptible
twitching
of nicotine
net
curtains.
Outside the
still
sky stands
waiting-
waiting
whilst
homing pigeons
circle-
and never
land.
