Homecoming

 

It feels just the same – the marble white table,

the smell of stilled laughter under layered dust,

the rickety lamps, the tangle of cables,

the old photo frames in sepia crumbed rust.

The chairs are empty, the frog-like telephone

is no longer there, but old conversations

hang like spider webs. The owners are gone

but their presence lingers in dented cushions,

in pairs of shoes arranged in the shoe rack,

housebound for years now. Vaguely outlined

in spectacle cases, chipped bric-a-brac,

magazine crosswords and hobbies left behind.

Piles of stuff neatly stacked in the cupboards –

the papers, letters - the evidence of words.