With foresight, remainders remain.
The whispers abound, flitting between
Nursing home and the corridors,
Portsmouth harbour gathers just around the corner.
The excommunicated wing of the family name
Build silent deaths through the springtime,
Raising achievement upon a flagpole
Nagging at the inheritance holders
For a little more conversation,
Just a few more words before you die,
Before we hang you upon the washing line.
Sister phones nana, they speak having said nothing,
Emotional duress, the twisted guilt of obligation,
Spears of abhorrence jutting through the Solent
Dragging cold, tapering fingers into the tide.
She will die soon, we will get no money.
People live inside us, but we hold
No right to their existence.
One plugs in a lamp, but does not create light.