The chair she sat in had seen better days,
any resemblance to a burnished throne
pure fantasy, for half its springs were gone,
cover and stuffing on their separate ways
towards disintegration; in the maze
of wire and fluff inside it a half-done
crossword, peanuts, a sweet, a dried-up bone
the dog had lost. In fact, to turn a phrase,
burning, not burnishing, was what it needed;
all thought of restoration or repair
into a distant hope had long receded.
Once it had been a comfortable chair,
the children's cosy nook, almost a friend,
but things wear out. The bonfire was its end.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
The chair she sat in had seen better days,
any resemblance to a burnished throne
pure fantasy, for half its springs were gone,
cover and stuffing on their separate ways
towards disintegration; in the maze
of wire and fluff inside it a half-done
crossword, peanuts, a sweet, a dried-up bone
the dog had lost. In fact, to turn a phrase,
burning, not burnishing, was what it needed;
all thought of restoration or repair
into a distant hope had long receded.
Once it had been a comfortable chair,
the children's cosy nook, almost a friend,
but things wear out. The bonfire was its end.
"The chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, / Glowed on the marble ... " - Eliot, The Waste Land
"The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, / Burn'd on the water ... " - Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
