This house is no home.
Just bricks and mortar
Cracked paving stones.
The basil plant on the windowsill
Has seen better days.
Leaves wilting alone.

The walls seem closer,
Close enough to stifle the soul.
Spring should be here by now
But winter won't let go.
The picket gate is creaking
Smothered by the weight of snow.
Cold and broken the boiler has
Long packed in.
Frozen
In what resembles rage again.