Dust motes float, trapped. br Suspended in the timeless amber br Of a sepia Wednesday. br The cheap carriage clock, tarnished br Tocks into the silent hum of the day. br A fly drones, settles. br br Eileen rises from her chair br With more grace than of late, lightly br She smooths her dress and looks around. br The teacup, cold, and the the book, unread, br Birthday cards on the mantlepiece br And a box of chocolates, two eaten. br br She smiles, walks to the door, br Puts on her coat and hat br And gently, quietly, takes her leave. br In the chair her former self br Remains, waiting for the relatives br To find her, apparently asleep.