Worn chairs with no seats cluster where
A mirror gives back a dull stare
At memories of other times.
As leather books are losing rhymes,
They tumble from a cardboard box
Where fossils hide, within grey rocks.
The dust of loss hangs on lost coats
As little dolls and tiny boats
Fall over yellow velvet chairs
As each of us packs up, prepares
To leave this place where he has sat,
Enduring frost and dark, and bat.
A stack of plates, cracked Staffordshire,
Is doomed. House sold, the end is here.