A red house on the hill...set
ablaze by an evening sunburst.
An ox-eye daisy spotted lawn –
crazy-paving pathway – flowerbed
lined, where calloused hands
dig and hoe like a devil possessed;
her mindset – fuelled by eyes
that rage like the fires of hell.
She dies, a little, every day;
when she goes back inside
there is nobody to notice,
save two Staffordshire dogs...
crazed and chipped, and faded,
on a chest of drawers.
Dust – hangs thick on sills
and wainscots...coals, unlit
in the grate, yet, in the flicker
of widowhood, slowly, she sits –
gazes out the window – hair
pulled back in a rubber-band;
frantic, fugitive strands escaping
when they can, as through a mist
slowly rising, she sees, way back
to the past, when he farmed this land;
where wheat and barley stood tall,
where presently, only uprooted trees
stand – cenotaphs to a northerly’s fury.
Barren fields where crows insist...
the only thing breaks the silence now,
and in the yard, the blinded eye
of a derelict hut, where he ate lunch,
besieged by ivy as it punches
Its roots run deep – deeper
than even she knows. Hand
to belly – feels that knot,
deep inside her take hold,
but slowly, like canker on a rose;
strangling all it finds as it creeps
as it binds as it burns.