|
|
|
Everywhere I looked there seemed to be a space; the house and also the garden felt so empty. Then there were things I would come across: items of clothing still hanging up, a favourite mug, and above all the absence of familiar objects such as a book - not mine - lying around and the usual muddle of newspapers.
Window
Looking through the window where the first frosts sit on the apple tree,
my gaze shifts to the patio and the old round table, once white, now grained with age,
and the chairs, some propped against the rain. The space where you sat is already six months old.
No newspaper lies discarded, no mug half-filled with tea. Your parka hanging on the peg
has shrugged off your shape. This space where you once were goes on living,
unlike you, and occupies another season, a winter, without you.
|
|
|
|
