Cold that grips to bind,
bending floorboards warped
my foot hereunder.
I watched the ivy wind
pulling slowly them asunder.
Throughout dust motes hang,
stifling tinsel threading
the banisters through.
I watched with a pang
those wasting lonely two.
Darkling brown the paper peels,
rolling downward slowly
casting a darkened shadow.
I watched over meals
their faces turning sallow.
The house stands empty,
a greying ashen hue.
Left in a corner leaning,
a disused snooker cue.
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A lightness of touch: Poetry in the face of pessimism.
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