The Proceedings

Strange, musty smell
seeping slowly from somewhere
in the room. Filling it
over the years.
Like a gas leak.
Or ancient drip
of water in an underground
cavern.

A sole armchair,
Damp, as a dark forest corner.
Greenish mouldy moss
Creeping up.

And the steady tick
of the sideboard clock.

The sun glimmers, glints,
reflected by youthful hair
fly away, dancing
behind dusty picture glass.
Prodigal.
Forgetful.

Still,
The steady drip
continues.
Water running over rock,
Carving tiny channels.

And with tramping boots, loud voice,
Skin smooth as dewy plums,
She plunders, discarded treasures
in bin bags.
Thrown out with the rotten fruit.

And clicks the door shut
to the still steady tick
of the sideboard clock.