A half open window
Buffeted by wind
Creeping through doors and cracks
Of a hollow house standing tall
In golden seas:
. Hosts of October’s departure.
Wind shuffling papers off a dusty table
Scattering and sliding along dark wooden floors.
On the table, the long swoop of her fingers
Catches the last, late sun:
. Bony knuckles in pale skin.
Little games the wind plays:
. A back door slams shut,
. Sneaking open again.
Her eyes, silent and empty:
. A blank stare across fields of time
. Become rusted playgrounds.
At just the right angle:
. Sparkling. Just then.
She’s sat here for a hundred years:
. Maybe longer,
Beside this window to the wind.
Messages, there are none
Until a warm gust,
Catching her grey hair,
Sprawled fingers curl then loosen
Warm tidings rippling through the grass
Knocking on a window
Where she’s waited for so long.
On a gust, the door flies open
Like a deep breath through the rooms
And for just a moment
The faintest, sweetest smell,
Like wispy memories of life,
Now the sudden hush of stillness.
All so warm and easy
This tall house, leaning on years
Fingers grasping for the last of the light.
And the warm, sweet smell of her passing still lingers here
As October’s stories scatter across dark skies and warm winds.