The silence that has fallen

here’s forever,

carpet-less your busy room,

embedded still

the presences of absent furniture,

empty bookshelves, departed garden tools,

flowering pots, patches of empty wall

where pictures hung.

So strange is time-

this ancient photograph hidden behind a list

of phone numbers - what message that ?

How long ago - the way you look at me

and I so vigorous - was that my prime?

The place is gently haunted now

Alone before the ten o’clock news

two cats gaze beyond the horizon

distant donkeys bray.


I do believe it’s much more difficult

staying behind -

the ghosts in your place

are unfamiliar,

they will not trouble you.

Here they come through doors


or creak along corridors

or run a bath.


The place vibrates in it’s past immediate,

the gaps in decoration

becoming doors to sudden pictures

drown the heart.

The farm is restless now,

reproachful still,

relents in silence.