Charles Cowling

Widow’s Villanelle
by Paul Wooldridge

 
Beneath the darkened upper floors
you smile and wave, left on your own,
with stillness waiting through each door.
 

Redundant now, your faithful chores,
that once supported fragile bone
beneath the darkened upper floors.
 

That one is left is nature’s flaw.
The tiring days and nights alone
with stillness waiting through each door.
 

The silence, that and little more.
Few visitors, a silent phone
beneath the darkened upper floors.
 

The family home, though once adored,
lies hollow now that kids are grown,
just stillness waiting through each door.
 

The future, stretching out, is yours,
its emptiness, its constant tone
beneath the darkened upper floors,
with stillness waiting through each door.

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