The last

They're all that's left of my family,

The last remnants of a ragged house.

Tree bereft of branches and leaves.

Life passing by in fury or drowsily.

They're all that come at night and rouse

Me from slumber, the hours bundled in sheaves.

They're naught more than shadows.

They might be ghosts, roaming the meadows

Before my tired eyes, they might be.

They might be dead, for all I know.

They might be. They might be.

They come and stand at the threshold,

not undaring, not unimpatient.

As old as the world they are, as old,

and wroth they are, and uncomplaisant.

Yet only they remain of those I loved,

once, long ago, when I was young.

Oh, how many a lonely day has passed

since then! Beyond count and unsung

they are. Hours and shadows now glassed,

time having reclaimed them from the deep.

Time slowly through my pores seep

and all I can see are shadows, shadows

around me. They have come – in fact

they have never left. They tell me I owe

them my eyes, stipulated in some obscure contract.

There are talks now the debt to halve

For after this they said they'd leave

And those shades are all the family I have.