The Cost Of Not Letting Go
They hoarded until the house grew heavy.
Every room filled with yesterday.
The children left; the piles stayed.
Inheritance settled into corners.
Life became possessions, not breath.
The garden crept in to finish the job.
They stepped from the stacked house,
weeds knocking on the back door,
into the garden they praised as life’s work.
They emptied a shed—white, a cube,
like galleries from days gone by
before the consumption of stuff.
The allotment gone to rack and ruin,
too much established veg
when they needed so little.
Thorns climbed the walls.
Prickles swallowed the cube.
Two chairs, two plates, one last inhale.
Death came softly under the green canopy.
Teethed by things, detached from the world,
they slept into memory,
realising the physical formats
had only consumed them.
Their final dream: a beach, bare toes,
water taking them back to where they were birthed—
naked, empty of weight,
full of happiness.
The vessel was the house.
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