Untitled

The road is dotted
with half-immersed stones,
gray and grim,
they stare up from the ground.
The house teeters-
unsteady with age,
its one cloudy eye leering-
Its one door flung open,
(A folded chair
where grandpa used to sit.)
and grandma, a long shadow
waiting in the doorway.
 
I turn back to wave
but the door is shut,
the yellowing curtain drawn-
the light dim
in the dreaming glass.

copyright, Patrick French.

All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.