June

Faded like the curtains
or the grey timeless tick.
Still as breezes stale and thick.
Musty as the warm day staff
of sunlight on the floor
targeting the dust and cardigan before.

Older than the wisps of blue rinse,
the fashions and the furniture.
Crumpled rustle of the chintz
like leaves indoors,
chipped cups in drawers,
brown apple cores.

Motionless as a straight falling feather
in the decay.
Slowly skin becoming leather,
rough and thick and cold as clay.
Bent fingers like a spiders bridge.

Staring ahead the brass clock face.
Photographs of relatives as children long away.
The room is just a memory
for someone who forgot this place.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.