Updated: Aug 23
The souls still wandered in the house as the bodies went away.
What more profound remnants can there be
than the remnants of an empty house?
Chairs plonked twisted in angles of swing
where the people once sat.
Empty mugs and cold tea bags
the last sip already stained around the border.
The faint air of lunch
and unfinished conversation
and the lucid, piercing silence
broken only by the song of rosellas and yellow-tailed cockatoos.
The memory of movement lives on in the bones of the house.
Kitchen tiles now cold and splattered
faint smells of cooking not yet vanished.
The piano mourns the silence
lone but for the books and clutter atop.
Lone but for the ukulele
a tiny companion
cheery and playful
rescuing the piano when it dives in sombre waters
when it dives too deep.
When it sings those sorrowful sounds
dark and solemn, making the world beautifully grim
enough to shed a thousand tears over a field of dead roses.
Pulling the mood yet further back in time
and further back in colour
the old friend accordion, too
laments the memories that once were.
undulating amidst the lowest of lows
a slow ballad of misery is dying to be played
but there’s no one to play it.
With deafening quietness from themselves,
the instruments of life lie still
without a soul to wield them.
It was only afternoon
It was only afternoon at the wooden, woven house.
They do return, the eclectic group
each bearing a piece of their story
beneath the bones that once shaded us.