Her room.

The

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.