Behind closed doors

Behind closed doors
you will see
the woollen scarf unravelling,
at both ends,
the spider re-spinning his
defeated home
and, above all,
the sideways chair, stood prone.

The ballpoint leaks ink,
sullying the blank notebook
poised at page one,
and the novel propped open,
halfway through,
beside the empty drinking glass,
few drops remaining:
light spilling in, bold as brass.

This cottage flowerbed overcome
by weeds, ground laid to waste,
waves solemnly through the misted window,
as a single speck of dust settles
on the chocolate foil,
drifting near the paper bin, almost posed
to find. But no: she is gone.
The book falls closed.