Her possessions <br />deserted her <br /> <br />left her <br />at her death <br /> <br />became petty <br />useless things <br /> <br />the memories of her... <br />...times gone by <br /> <br />photographs <br />of memories <br /> <br />that no one <br />remembers anymore <br /> <br />holidays <br />& Holy days <br /> <br />precious things <br />now idly masquerading as items <br /> <br />emptied from <br />wardrobes & drawers <br /> <br />washing up on <br />charity shop shelves <br /> <br />now just junk <br />or binned <br /> <br />a lifetime <br />in a refuse sack <br /> <br />no thought now <br />of who she was <br /> <br />the dustmen <br />whistling in the morning <br /> <br />a music fragile <br />as frost <br /> <br />breath left hanging <br />in the coldness of the air <br /> <br />an empty house <br />unable to recall <br /> <br />her footfall <br /> <br />the sound of her voice <br />reciting Walter de la Mare <br /> <br />to her overfeed orange <br />cat. <br /> <br />Her possessions <br />deserted her <br /> <br />forgetting even <br />her name.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-name-for-lyn/
