Dust motes float, trapped.
Suspended in the timeless amber
Of a sepia Wednesday.
The cheap carriage clock, tarnished
Tocks into the silent hum of the day.
A fly drones, settles.

Eileen rises from her chair
With more grace than of late, lightly
She smooths her dress and looks around.
The teacup, cold, and the the book, unread,
Birthday cards on the mantlepiece
And a box of chocolates, two eaten.

She smiles, walks to the door,
Puts on her coat and hat
And gently, quietly, takes her leave.
In the chair her former self
Remains, waiting for the relatives
To find her, apparently asleep.

Martin O'Neill

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eileen-4/