OLD BOOTS

 

In the garden the weeds grow unchecked

Grass spikes up between the slabs

And frolics across the borders

Exploiting the unexpected freedom.

Upstairs, dust lays heavy,

Floors remain unwashed

Beds are unmade.

In the kitchen no kettle boils

And food grows old

And mouldy.

A pair of cold boots

Stand beside the door

Waiting for your feet to warm them.

A tear snakes down my face

Filling the air with fury;

Finding your absence

Unbearable.