Visitors (Poetry)

The note pinned on the door said NOT AT HOME —
a feeble hand — unsteady — paper cheap
and torn along one edge as though in haste
with little hope three words would likely keep

the world at bay for long. The man and girl
who knocked, despite the message, listened hard
then in the silence whispered their concerns —
slid through the letterbox a Christmas card.

Eyes watched them as they walked back to their car
drove off into the snow-filled afternoon
the light behind the trees a yellow glow
that cheered the sky and brightened the small room.

It fell upon her face — it smoothed her cheek
stroked the silver cloud of uncombed hair —
he’d left her where she was — as though asleep
curled small against the cushions of her chair.

He wasn’t ready yet to share sad news —
let anyone disturb or take away
the focus of his grieving — he would keep
her safe and wrap her warmly where she lay.

They came back three days later — knocked again.
The milk untouched and frozen on the step
snow drifted by the door — the torn note hung
still hopeless in a world where people kept

on pestering — their consciences too keen
and always sure they know what’s for the best
regarding others — heedless of their needs —
that time alone to come to terms with death.

The knocking grew more loud — he winced and sighed
resigned to the intrusion, faith squeezed thin
he knelt beside her, mumbled ‘Now my dear,
we’ve visitors — I’d better let them in.’