Whisper Of The Walls

The stairwell is dark,

as stairwells

often are.

This one, haunted

by the guilt,

of a blood-stained war.

And if I press my ear

on the walls

of old rulers,

the echo of the child’s voice

bounces down,

from the floor

to the highest of ceilings.

The centre of a room

is the loneliest so,

you shift along

to grip the handrail,

disturbing the glitter

that settles

on the steps.

You were playing

fancy dress, now

and then.

There is no Mother

here,

but the walls whisper

of jasmine,

and tobacco leaf.