chair at window


That long dirty road
Washed by rain,
Shines now in the lamplight.
Darkened houses
Running down each side,
Are stubborn in their silence,
Pitiless in their blankness.

No-one is out tonight,
No footsteps echoing through the quiet air,
Just lonely eyes
Looking through bare and dusty windows,
Wishing someone would walk by.
Perhaps even turn in at the gate.
Step inside for a chat and a cup of coffee.

But that never happens.
The kettle stays cold,
The biscuits put back
In the tin.
And the china cup and saucer
With the little silver spoon,
Carefully replaced in the cupboard.

Tonight the armchair
Pulled up to the fire
Stays empty.

There’s always tomorrow.

                                          ©2019 Gwen Grant

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