For Muriel

Her eyes

Pale blue

Dreamy – windows to her soul,

Her house hs been vacant for years

Yet a candle still flickers in the window,

Every time someone comes to visit,

You,

Dutiful son,

Press her papery thin hands,

Stroking the blue veins that dart across her knuckles,

A highway of travel for the weary,

You,

Look into her eyes and wait for an answer,

For someone to set up house,

To draw the curtains and dust the cobwebs off the furniture,

To breathe in that familiar scent  you call

Mama.

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