Empty as her pockets she fingers
the jigsaw, a thousand pieces of nothing
where order starts at the edge
of an idealised world that builds now
to now with each additional piece
and a frame that waits for colour.
Vague shapes lumber the room,
her mind crowds with odd gait
reminiscences, Sunday dresses,
sensible sandals, three bridesmaids
in peach while the fireplace mirror reflects
all this as if it were worth re-knowing.
In the late February darkness
the wind practises its toothless whistling.
Tea is delivered in the worship
of speed and convenience.
Sunday best memories neatly folded,
her slippered feet seek a walking frame,
as jigsaw pieces scatter.