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