Tiled Victorian floor. 

The glass in the dining room door

That my mother put her hand through once. 

The door to the pantry,

Lined with shelves to two walls,

A tiny window and a larder cupboard. 

The door to the under stairs cupboard

Where my father dressed and showered. 

The timber panelling to the side of the stairs, 

Painted white. 

The stairs with the cheap carpet runner,

Worn on each tread,

My father refusing to replace it

Until we learnt to climb the stairs "properly". 

The gas heater where we huddled

To get dressed on winter mornings. 

The door to the junk room,

Which used to be my grandmother's room. 

The cold tiles, patterned, ornate. 

The door to my father's office. Not allowed. 

The coat rack loaded with coats. 

The glass door behind it. 

The front door. Solid. Held open

With a heavy weight. 

The house is empty. 

There's only me. 

Tiled Victorian floor. 

The glass in the dining room door.