Your Chair

Alone it has no purpose.
Crouched there under the lamp in wait,
Threadbare arms, faded and worn over years
of constant exposure to sunlight and work worn fingertips.
A place for rest and recuperation.
Where garden wearied bones would find their ease and hands
chapped from digging, be massaged back into soft life.
Cold and dormant it sits.
Cushions piled expectantly against the time
its sagging frame be called once more to use,
once more to feel the warmth of occupation and the wriggle
of a living body as it twists and turns to find that, oh, so comfortable position
needed to settle down with book and G and T.
It waits in vain.
Unknowing of the fate it now must face,
For spectre only wanders through the house and tends the plot
where loving care once wrought an eden fit for gods and angels
to find peace from woes.
The ghost of make and mend now gives the nod for pins and needles to rust in
dated fabric, forming half finished projects strewn about its feet.
Numbered are it's days.
As fire consumes laughter, tears and all that once gave purpose for
existence of it's form so too will it burn.
And ashes spread and mingled over life to come will form its last repose.

This was written a few days after a close family members death a couple of weeks ago. I don't know if it works for anyone else, but it means something to me.