The room is bare
only a chair in a corner,
still warm from the woman who sat there;
she won’t be back.
The room is silent,
stuffy needs airing,
a faint aroma of perfume lingers;
curtain less window
and grey dust on sill.
Walls, once white, now smoky yellow,
white squares where family pictures used to hang.
I close the door it creaks,
a last fear ridden dissent
and leave the room to its own sadness.