Knocking for sales, amongst a thriving industrial suburban district, my next visit was to a ramshackle dwelling; tenaciously clinging to life like a stain on a new Sunday dress.
Front door open to a neglected interior, oozing a musty stench of decay, I called out for invite to enter.
Torn Lino floorboards creaked insidiously, as wallpaper strips ripped in the wind – a howling echo, haunting and hollow.
Rooted, with intrigued gaze, I reeled to attention at her appearance.
The woman was an apparition as grim as the house. Straggly grey hair, sprawled like a mat of rot, flew from her face in the wind.
Her skin a sagging garment of parchment – wasted and threadbare, as her dress, clung to a skeletal frame, against the wind.
Opaque eyes honed with mistrust tried to pierce through my mission.
My fear, now a rapid fire pitch, crowded her senses and so her harsh croak of rejection, relieved my departure.
Stunned, I scampered back to the safety of noise and pollution – an affirmation of Life.
Once on the pavement, I stole myself for a backward glance and my comfort sank; for the sinister scrag and her house was now as bewildered a grimace of weeds –
as was my confusion.