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.