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The chair by the window sits there still,
Peeping at all and sundry from over the sill,
Gathering dust, unkempt, with tales many to tell,
Yet, none dare to care - memories as ghosts - stall.
The old dowager's throne was it,
Murmuring to self all day and late into night,
Eyes forlorn yet vigilant at any movement,
None to share a word with or a comment.
Palms beseeching beggars passed by,
A penny or a pound tossed the moody fay,
Enquired something deaf though to the reply,
Giggling haggling they sped, yet sorry for God's way.
Me, a bird, among a flock perched on a treetop,
Saw the scene below with a now-and-then sob,
Thought how crazy and sad is the human slob,
Caged by their mind, never free to feel a throb.
Image © istockphoto.com |
