MOVING BOXES
Still they sit in the shed. Empty. Cold. Lifeless
Never looked at, she wonders why she keeps them.
Just hang onto them.
They may be of use. Or do they represent something else?
Her. Love for her. Annoyance of her. They are from her address.
Stickers of a home no longer visited.
They must not be tossed out. Spiders can weave their fine homes.
But never thrown. Never thrown. Always at my home.
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.
Retwords 