Front door rustles their mottled leaves of glass,
sliced finely, outlined
by smouldering egg yolk shine,
which grins knowingly
from its red brick confines;
windows dressed enamel-white,
doorstep’s face wiped vacant,
the lavender butchered in its bed,
and yet that light lives, lingers,
stubbornly refuses
to cease –
she must have left it on,
to guide her back,
to see her home.