I’ve only been gone two days, forty-eight
hours at most but everything has changed.
The cat no longer recognises me, a rose has
opened and the trees are not the same.
Colour rests where before it lay unseen.
The air is charged, different, the sky not
the same.
The house is empty.
Sheets flutter on the line, they will smell
of spring.
Though the morning smelled of rain, sea and
rosemary.
There is a note on the table, it was not
there when I left; least it’s not the same one.
The other is there, upside down at the
other end of the page.
There are no echoes, only questions.
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