hearing the ringing tones
that no-one picks up
sending letters full of love
to that address, known by heart
only to have them returned unopened
Standing outside the house
broken windows of the soul
declare there's no-one in
introspective in her room
no perfume now or familiar odour
nor dressing table clutter
Leaves underfoot crunching, wrinkled, spent
mottled tones fading as old skin
hushed thought and sudden realisation
that she-is-gone
trans-parent, through that other door...