Unused Room

Speckled dust, dances on the mahogany table Flecked particles perform acrobatics in the stale air Caught in the footlights of the afternoon sun They perform for no one, but themselves. Closed book's, bound in secret line one wall Two portraits hang opposite, seeing only each other No one else to say goodnight too, or God bless The bed linen folded pristine, cotton creases sharp. Spiders seek refuge in the darkened corners Scurrying away from the searing brightness Surging its way through the leaded windows Into a waterfall of light, on the bare wooden floor. Few home comforts remain in this modest room Perfume, long since evaporated and a silk gown Are in themselves just hints that a woman slept here An authoress who penned her work, undisclosed. People talk of her now, read her stories of romance Adapt her works for film and television audiences The historic family home preserved by English Heritage A blue plaque sited by the solid front door. The room itself remains virtually untouched Sacrosanct to her memory And her life.