Sunday, 21 March 2021



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.


  1. Hari OM
    This rings close to home as 'stuff' has to be sorted in the now empty home of four decades... YAM xx

    1. A heartbreaking job...strangely, it's four decades here as well...

  2. Oh yes. This has triggered a flood of memories.

  3. yep - I can hear the echoes in this poem of days gone by. Now blow off the dust and it's just stuff.

  4. Hi Nila - the days of time gone by ... in my case no time to dwell - just need the memory bank to remember times gone.

    It's not easy - yet memories help to a point ... stay safe - I need to dust off some of my own dust ... with thoughts - Hilary