‘Blue Chair’ by Angela O’Connor

The unloved armchair still rests on the verge.
Discarded. Left at a rusty farmyard gate.

Mock velvet once a proud cornflower blue
faded to a dulled unfashionable hue.

Torn back exposes wooden bones and polyester muscle.
Unsullied yet worn human rubble.

Who now sits disengaged gazing east?
Ghosts of your former self watching Morecambe n’ Wise
or London Palladium with its revolving stage?

A raven perches on the arm. Blue black feathers
complementing forsaken charm.

One thought on “‘Blue Chair’ by Angela O’Connor

  1. Hello, Angela,

    As with the majority of your poems, Angela, this one is made all the more poignant by its brevity. Though that same brevity does not detract from or dilute its larger narrative. For the observer at least, its personification gives the armchair a life. It had a life. A place in, a life. A place in a person’s life. Even in its abandonment, it harbours the ghost of that person.
    Alas, the carrion bird foretells the armchair’s ultimate fate.
    All things go the same way.
    If the owner of the chair where there, long enough, the carrion bird would alight on them.

    Thanks, Angela,



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