The Sitter

The Sitter Nothing disturbed the tranquil air, The tick, tick of the time-worn clock. The sitter in the wooden chair Not hearing the gentle, gentle knock. An old, old man by the broken door, Breathed in the still, still air. The sitter looked but did know The man who entered there. ‘Who are you?’ the sitter asked, ‘I am Memory?’ the man replied As the quiet, quiet sitter gazed Upon a face once recognised. Memory, seeing no thought to share, Lingered a short, short while And the sitter in the wooden chair Smiled a faint, faint smile And the clock measured the stillness As the man left the calm, calm room. And the sitter sat in silence, Alone in the still, still room. Barry Stebbings 22/04/2016