When it came through the door
I knew what it was.

'I'll have that,' it said,
eating the photographs
up on the shelf, and the vases of flowers.

'I'll have that,'
it said,
gulping my grandmother down,
and the chair where she sat,
her Venetian silk wrap,
and the old rattan couch
and my grandfather too.

'I'll have that,' it said,
touching my great-aunts, and cousins, great-uncles,
and bolting them down.

It was clear it was sick of the sight of the clutter we make.
It was businesslike, brisk.

Looking around, it said, 'You won't be needing this lot,'
and my grandparents (mother's folk) went,
aunts and uncles and all.
Till my mother was left.
And of course she was not with us long.

It was eyeing her off.

It ate cupboards, an easel and cutlery,
carpets and beds. It took pictures from walls,
and the albums, and swallowed the books,
and the lines of descent and the old family Bible's bright pages.

Medallions were gone with the cash and the washing machine.
It was thorough, and quick, and it knew how to tidy things up.

It took legs from the children who ran,
it took eyes that could see,
and the ears that had listened to Brahms,
and the fingers that wrote;
didn't stop to explain.

It ate loves and ate hates.

It looked in the mirrors, saw nothing,
and swept through the house.

It had no time for sentiment,
hiding of heirlooms or cash or for packing of bags.

It was travelling light,
didn't pause to draw breath, pick its teeth,
it was hungry and quick.