The Chair
His chair stands alone in silence,
Broken and worn,
With a chunk of cheap plyboard peeping through.
As simple as the day it came to be.
No sign of him.
Silence envelopes it.
Thirteen years have passed and still his chair
remains my precious jewel,
It stands amongst the mice traps, children’s shoes and bags of turf.
Every dent and scrape a memory of love and warmth.
Oh how I wish his hands could fix it now.
But transience of time will not allow.
Copyright © Louise Norduff | Year Posted 2023
|