It’s late, in the day,
the last, of the leaves, have fallen,
the flowers, have dried out, in copy books,
vases and plastic bags,
the orchids and triffids,
long gone, from the garden,
now, overgrown, with weeds.

The floors are creaking,
the bones brittle, porous,
the kitchen, hasn’t been painted,
in years and years.

The back-door, rotten,
the back windows, weeping,
with moisture,
the energy levels,
through, the rotting floors,
after all,
it is,
late,
in the day.

Photo by Charles Parker from Pexels