Cobwebbed rooms
Lives
linger on, hidden and unwritten,
translucent
phantoms lost in rooms closed off.
Cobwebbed
messages seal up passageways
with
unread notes to the discordant air.
A piano
plays without heart, a murmur.
The
chaste could not find themselves,
bare
histories clump the rusted air, folded chair.
Laid for
dinner, the proud table stands lone,
empty
astride once-polished scarlet stone.
They
steam tea, slice watery cucumbers,
counting
days to the sun and moon,
wand’ring
ancient pathways so overgrown.
Dank
moss and weeping brook blanketed
by the willow’s
green locks. It all flickers,
disarmed,
locked away in another time.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 9, 2020
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