fairy lights,
which once lent the stairwell
a festive air,
now hover over the edge
of the banister,
weighing up their options;
their luminescence
a kind of indifference.
chairs,
once high-backed and proud,
now lie scattered around
the floor like unfinished sentences;
stooped over
with the indignity of months
masquerading as
coat hangers,
doorstops,
resting places for moths.
curtains,
drawn tight,
to keep in the dark.
There’s nothing on the telly,
except me on the laptop,
which is a reflection
of the way things have been
these past few days, even
the clock has a sad face,
stuck at twenty-to-five.
the sink is full of wishes.
photos,
merely portals to the past,
where once there was laughter
like the tinkle of crystal
but now only silence,
broken every so often by the breaking
of a wave
off a distant shore
washing up another memory.
on the mantelpiece,
a starfish of keys.
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