Creeping like a rumour
from cold room and colder still,
no need to keep the lifeless silence
that hangs, as if some assassin’s chord
has deftly strangled last year’s
incarcerated air.
The comfortable dust is wary too
lest I might break its reverie,
but no, I float through space
with vaporous eyes as empty as
the cupboard drawers.
Am I the first to return here?
As if to steal a march or careless clue,
before you notice and hurry back
to bid me stay.
But these are memories
that cannot be traded for fresher life.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2010
