Creative Writing: Landscape

The amber drops of my mother’s
Downfall now swollen into
Puddles on the linoleum of the
Kitchen floor with icebergs of
Glass glinting among them.
The driveway has stopped
Its cry of gravel and the
Creeping green of weeds threatens
To take over.
A hair brush lies on its back
Tufts of blonde hair like feathers
Still twisted around its spikes.
The click of the kettle’s switch
And steam spirals up from its mouth
Into the still plateau of silence.
In the garden a football and
A badminton racket are
Fallen soldiers.