Dust motes float, trapped.
Suspended in the timeless amber
Of a sepia Wednesday.
The cheap carriage clock, tarnished,
Tocks into the silent hum of the day.
A fly drones. Settles.
Eileen rises from her chair
With more grace than of late, lightly.
She smoothes her dress and looks around
The teacup, cold and the book, unread.
Birthday cards on the mantlepiece
And a box of chocolates, two eaten.
She smiles, walks to the door
Puts on her coat and hat
And gently,quietly takes her leave.
In the chair her former self
Remains, waiting for the relatives
To find her, apparently asleep.
Tags: