LEONARD
The house is cold, empty, silent. In the drawers
of an oak dressing table there are coat buttons,
fountain pens and grainy photographs.
I open the mirrored wardrobe and discover
old Christmas presents. Shirts you never wore,
books about football and wars and trains,
the ‘Best Grandad’ mug I got you last year.
I put the shirts in a plastic charity bag.
There are woollen jumpers, silk handkerchiefs
with embroidered Ls, and the scent of Old Spice.
A pile of neatly folded clothes rests on a chair.
Corded jeans, a leather belt, a navy blue shirt.
I examine the shirt, touch the blood patch
on the collar from when you cut yourself shaving.
I put the pile in another plastic bag and sit
on the cane chair, gaze out of the window
at the soft rain and the dainty hawthorns
in your garden. That view will never pall.
