The Spare Room

This misty Autumn Sunday

The damp little room is filled

With little thoughts

That feed.

 

Still falls the rain.

The house persists, and then within,

The dark room of wrong.

It spoke to her as in a dream:

 

‘I am She’.

 

Her pale hands grope

In search of her,

Listening to the voices

Of women and children.

 

Sleeping out there in the sun, in the rain,

She never opened the door

Fearing that she might see nothing at all.

This is the room where two lie dead.

 

Natalie Crick