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.