I rest, as once more
my legs are crossed upon the floor;
the old armchair not looms but graces
the room, and our two listening faces.
Conversation leads the wane,
the world waxes, yet I remain,
the armchair not yet old but so;
solemn comes and solemn goes.
But long since years have passed me by,
nineteen there, twenty nigh,
and still the armchair's yet to fade;
in grace and hope, and heart pervade.
And silent sit I lend my ear
to stories told first time this year,
of decades past and my existence
just a spark, universal resistance.
Generations part the seas
like Moses, only I believe
in stories told from familiar tongues,
not sung, and yet exist in song.
The armchair rests in praise and strength,
the day shall pass, familiar length;
and that familiar person there
much to rely, and all to share.
In trust, in grace, in hearted love,
and stories from which I will carve
a narrative in which I fit;
one day this armchair, I shall sit.
I wrote this for my grandad when I was around 19. He has since passed, and in the latter months of his life I was his carer. I miss him every day, and that old armchair in which he sat and talked to me about life.
