End Poem

Trees are skeletons,
Life withdrawn
In wooden cupboards.

The house is derelict, empty, vandalized.
Broken windows have let in leaves,
Dried leaves in his wardrobe,
The coloured clothes
He once gave life.
Some faded,
Some like the bright plastic living forever, arbitrarily.
All his life was there, his dark suits, old working clothes,
His collection of odd socks,
His box of poems.

Outside a few yellow leaves cling on,
He’s gone now but I think he’s happy,
Blowing in the wind, evergreen
In the firs, pines, spruces and hollies.