From the gloomy passageway
Beyond the kicked in door,
The nauseous stench of death
and decay.
Defies us to cross the damaged threshold at our peril.
Maggots
swarm on a decaying, corpse -
In the old armchair, the floor and hair -
What's left of it.
Bony fingers point accusingly.
‘Too late, too late.’
‘Ah! there you are my lad.
We wondered where you were.
You might have tidied up a bit.
Just look at this place.’
Empty beer cans, fag ends everywhere, unwashed dishes in the sink.
Whatever would your mother think.
Everything is just the way it was you know.
We haven’t changed a thing.
There was no need to leave us in this way
We loved having you around, you made us proud.
Everything will be alright.
You can come home now.'
Copyright Harry Hunt 2008
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