Still Life

Every October he locks up his caravan,
flips a bolt on the metal jacket –
canned for the winter.

The spray of plastic poppies
in the mug on the table,
will not drop their petals

although they fade to pink,
grow dusty. He has emptied the fridge
but forgotten the cupboard

where noodles soften,
tomatoes ripen to paste,
a jar of honey turns to crystal.

Folded blankets will not stretch
themselves back across the bed
but they suck at the damp air

hungrily, like the spider
drinking the fly
hanged from the lightshade.

No, this is not still life –
see how I shiver in the wind,
my windows glazing over
at the disappointing view.

First published by Staple 2008.