I walked through the rooms of my life,
pausing, stopping to secure the shutters,
or to open a cupboard and ponder a memory,
which I carefully replace as I walk to the next room.
The floorboards creak, and the stairs are winding.
The walls echo with children's laughter,
yet the silence is resounding in its solitude.
Old photographs of smiling faces in hybrid frames:
places from childhood adventures, views of foreign
lands, holding hands of parents, long gone now,
yet vivid still in their suspended animation.
Gone, and sometimes forgotten, but remembered now.
I climb the stairs of grieving; recalling the loss of a lover,
but my breath is caught by laughter as I run again,
wind in my hair, the ghost of a faithful dog ahead,
running, goading the waves on a Dorset beach.
I reach to collect the final box and carry it downstairs
to the waiting van, pausing for a last look before I move on.
The house is empty and echoing, stains exposed,
and empty picture hooks. A discarded book,
dog eared but rescued now for posterity and stuffed in
a carrier bag to be transported to a new life by the sea.
As time stands still and silence sonorous in its symphony,
I turn the key. Locked shut, I walk towards my future,
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