The wardrobe is filled with linen,

there are even moonbeams I can unfold.

The roof has slipped back on the gables

old trees march in from the cold.

The wardrobe is filled with linen,

the beds are slept in again.

Out of the air spill table and chairs,

the wine has crept back to the rim

The wardrobe is filled with linen,

the drawers are packed with days.

The cabinet lies unsmashed in its corner,

there’s a harvest of sun on the floor.

The wardrobe is filled with linen,

the shadows come back to the wall.

They’ve gone to collect the children

from the strangers who stand in the hall.

The rooms are empty and cold,

the drawers are littered with bones.

The wardrobe is filled with linen

no one can touch or unfold.

Peter Sirr's The Rooms (Gallery), from which this week's poem is taken, has just been published.