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.
October work by Angela O’Connor
Mechanical beasts, red, green, blue and yellow
Chew their way through fields of expectant glory.
Steel edges crucify the ground. Rupturing the land
to suit our needs, to feed our need, our need, always.
Angela’s response to trigger ‘fall’:
Fallen by Angela O’Connor
Nothing ever lasts forever, truly lasts.
Like that night we walked together.
By the twinkling beck I fell into your arms,
aching for your lips. Against the skeletal Sycamore
your very being wanted much more.
But I was only fifteen.
That protective coat you had once offered
was gone. Pulled from my body like a hulled
Rapeseed husk. Now discoloured shapes
lie in my muddied heart like leaves.
In the deep brown crevices of a tilled land.
Nothing ever lasts forever.