This house doesn’t sell

My winter garden is plush
with memories of summer cherries
and so is my house
with echoes of my children’s play-names
the kitchen smells of the curry
and love that blossomed
in its four corners
the mirrors are too outdated to look into!
the portrait of my beloved
dated 1857
half hung, half falling
speaks of the youth and its promise
declined

after I died

everyone went to a nowhere
while I am still here
hanging about the windows
waiting for their return
sometimes I turn and overturn
the garden by my grave
with the same spade
in case they lay asleep by my side
When I ask news from occasional passersby
they run away frantically
like I did once from the murky mirrors

This house doesn’t sell

I have been told days after days
by strangely talking bats and rats
that my house is winter
because I live here
But where do I go if I don’t know
the whereabouts of my loved ones?