Speaking of which, Hope hasn’t replied to my message…

Speaking of which, Hope hasn’t replied to my message…

She sat in a chair,

By the window,

A sharp chin bumping

Up and down

Onto her shrunken chest.

She was drained

Shrivelled,

As sun-dried as a tomato

The juice, long gone

Sad eyes,

As grey as her thorny hair

Nothing moved her

Quite like a shot of brandy

In an espresso before midday

By three

She was back in her shell

None of her neighbours

Knew the answer

Although many had asked the question

The window was her domain

Fingerprints upon the pane

The shape of a kiss stencilled

In condensation

“Tough as leather is she”

So said the postman

The house was built around her

“She’s bin sittin’

Waitin’ since ‘afore the revolution.”

She had received an official visit

Two uniformed men

And a severely dressed woman

From the local council

Brought proof

Dog tags, a folded flag

And a medal with ribbons

In a dark-stained wooden box,

A miniature coffin

She stopped the clocks

And refused to breathe

Easily

Ever again

In the distance, she heard a train

He might be on it

If only she believed strongly enough

What was the point of god

Spirituality was a part of the brain

It could be stimulated

With Electricity

But somewhere deep within

She wanted to believe

Nothing ever happened

That could not be true

It was written on a plaque

Above the door to her dad’s study

He wrote books

They were full of metaphors

Truthsayers so he said

She wanted something more than truth

To intercede

In the story of her life

And she was prepared to wait

Forever if needs be

To be a good wife

Even as she sat very still,

Every breath, a disappointment

She knew that one day

He would step into her dreams

And she would never wake up.