Always the curtains, just ajar
in her chair, watching
the shadows mocking
a slice of sunlight, glittering dust, probing
the murky depths of a cluttered life
The lights, always off
still rocking, back and forth, back and forth
holding her bundle, cold
with the same expression,
waiting for one day to walk in the room,
change the past
At night, the black broth, crossed
by occasional shadows,
pale like ghosts,
a face at the window
our eyes meet, maybe
or maybe look right through
But fleeting, back to the chair
you could hear, bare floorboards
their own private grief
again and again, bemoaning
the only sound to break the still
I was a child then, so never knew
the full, just snippets overheard
mothers’ gossip, the way to school, which
over years, pieced together to form, perhaps
this shade of truth, though
the last time, years later, saw that house,
the curtains were closed.
If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!
Paul Horne 