The sink is full of dishes, and mug of tea stands, gone cold. The moon shines on her pale face.
A tricycle lies on its side in an empty corridor. The slap of a wave on the shore, the cry of a bird.
Books lie face down, waiting. The water laps at the shore, turning her in gentle circles
A bath run, steaming quietly to itself. Her clothes billow softly around her.
Ginger biscuits on a plate. The river slides, carrying its gentle burden.
The thing that makes the world is gone. Her hair floats in the dark water, like weeds.
Everything waits, turned towards the door. The river slides its oily way, carrying its burden gently.