They've left home.

A home hollowed of children.
No piles of school shoes or games half played.
Time to rigorously hoover carpets, matting the threads into submissive rows.
Or to wash in a bathroom where the porcelain and taps shine.

Stacks of picture frames.
One of her, the daughter.
Just like her mother.
Same nose and brow.
Eighties, long corkscrew, curls.
In a tight half ponytail.

The son, grown up and surrounded by his wife and kids.
Milk bottle glasses, tall mousy and thin.
Not like his handsome mother or confident, contented father.
The last 40 years on a pine wood sideboard.
Enshrined with figurines and potpourri.

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