Windows

Mother left the front room curtains open
so everyone could see we had t.v.
Father brought home fish and chips on Fridays,
to eat from papers balanced on our knees.
A parchment lampshade, with a sailing ship,
floated on a Mateus Rosť sea
lighting up the face of mother’s Lladro
she always said would, one day, pass to me.
Now the curtains, drawn against the sunshine,
are bleached to stripes, the colour almost gone.
Silence fills the space, the screen is waiting,
a film of dust has settled on the phone.
The stale air still tastes of Windowlene.
Reluctantly, I take the figurine.

Carole Houlston

 

If you've any comments on this poem, Carole Houlston would be pleased to hear from you.

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