Empty House

Hands tapering down to fine wiry wrists, They were strong and straight. Footsteps left empty along the cleaner than before Floorboards. The ancient sounds of cats scratching over them gone. Dust settles and falls from no-ones skin, Just the walls, and ceilings stretching out. Creams and eggshell blues, soft pinks and mauve paint, Is the only trace of her. Her delicate hangings made from saris stitched together Piece by piece, are packed tightly in boxes. The bright mosaic coffee table Stands empty but for a wilting chrysanthemum, Sitting alone in the centre.