Widow
The atmosphere of 1910 in the house.
Under the stairs she stores memories of war;
shadows, photographs in gaslight.
The hedges grow taller, unimaginably
tall. Dark angels, their terminal faces
at the window, interfering. Light
breaks off in the garden, a snapped stem,
an evening green with yesterdays:
only shadows enter, courteous gentlemen,
in their black ties, out of date suits.
