Nature of the Beast

On the brink of widowhood, she stops
at the door...wonders why, in heaven’s name,
she’d knocked before she’d gone in. Tools
strewn, here and there; an ancient saw –
rosewood handle, brass-edged blade,
paint-cans...Victorian Red, Royal Purple –
stashed, one atop the other – paint
encrusted lids...remnants of another time,
when her days were obese with birdsong –
robins, skylarks and jays, sang a hundred
shades of green.

From beyond the loft, with its gnarled
and twisted beams, the sun filters through;
spider-webs waft in the breeze, stop the cat
in its tracks, as it crouches on its haunches
poised to make its ‘kill’. Stacks of magazines...
brittle...ochre with age; much like her, she fears.
Blue denim dungarees; ones he used to wear –
darned at the knees, from an era when folk
actually mended things, now mocked her
with their stillness. Why torture herself, so?
Why stay? But, only cats know when
to walk away.