There’s A Light On In My Grandmother’s Old House

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.