On Entering...

Silly, I know, but I half expected
to see her – sleeves rolled up;
her indomitable pinny, made
from a scrap of the upstairs
bedroom curtains. Sprigs
of violets. Purple – her colour.

The kitchen clock had stopped
at three-thirty; a tap – dripping
in the sink thrumming a largo beat
for one for whom, now – time
holds no meaning.

A dishcloth, on its hook –
dry as a bone, and a chamois
leather, brown and brittle,
on the floor by the clothes-horse;
the last leaf of winter, succumbed
to its inevitable fate.

In the garden – washing, still
on the line. Her dress of lilac mists
waltzes with a mad March wind.
Purged and pristine, I fold it away
in the dark of her closet, and wonder
why I’d knocked on her door
before I’d gone in.