These rooms are  cleaner, tidier now,

Shorn of their clutter, anyhow.

 Mum’s flat echoes, to my heavy tread,

as I pace to the beat of an empty drum,

gathering mem’ries of my dear old mum.

I lean across her dining table,

To eat some food, where she last fed.

 

Her chair is empty, but still bears the scars,

The detritus of her toast and jam.

faint vestiges of mum’s cups of tea,

old slops and stains, she could not see.

 

Net curtains, faded, where her sun had shone,

Her flat still functions, but my mum has gone.