Like bric-a-brac they jostle
through my life
unwanted but difficult to ignore.

Silence surrounds them
and their hold abuses all my senses,
starves me of my contented life.

The human and animal kind
haunt my days, persist
with their averted eyes, hooded and sly.

Plants attack from a different angle,
edges withered, colours raucous,
vinegar-like perfume stings
and their touch slimy, repels.

Wrapped in feigned indifference
I hurry past,
conjure up the warm fire, cottage garden,
the smell of toast and coffee,
laughter of friends,
the touch of fine linen,
and put the clamour
of the homeless ones
into a distant dimension.
 

Revisiting

The squares and rectangles
of the empty house
slide into a frozen waiting,
plane spaces peeling,
entrances buckling,
the curved pathway fuzzy
with weeds.

Inside, the ghosts crowd
every room.
Vines and delinquent branches
have smashed their way
into the kitchen
and air cloys, chokes words,
earthy-mould smell 
dulling senses.

If I had been here sooner...
if I had been dutiful...
but all the ifs are hollow sounds,
leave me like the nest of baby mice
I find behind the pine dresser
     naked   alone    afraid.