The Fading

The bedroom window lets in
night drafts, the double bed is cold,
downstairs though, the room
is cosy and warm,
though no real fire now,
just radiators drying clothes.

The kitchen is full
of unused things.
You can see the garden from there.
The overgrown grass and
the dandelion heads nodding
amongst the rosehips.

Still the birds come
and find the insects and crusts.
Bathing in the puddles on the
cracked path,
they still sing,
oblivious to decay.

The woman who lives here
painted bright walls beside her love,
filled the nursery,
sewed the curtains,
kneaded bread.
Alone, she remembers

party balloons, Easter egg hunts and
trips to buy Christmas trees.
Collecting up the toys, then
getting tipsy and curling up
after the children went to sleep.

Moving from her old armchair
is difficult, but the carer lifts
her gently, and reminds her
that’s it’s time for bed.
She makes the cocoa
then closes the door behind her.

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