On leaving you.

Poetry, along with beauty, can be found in anything if you know how to look at things (and people) the right way!




Twelve years ago, or thereabouts 
walking in Highgate with the woman 
the woman I loved more than any other at that time


Oh Judy...


we passed a skip and in that skip was a chair
a kitchen chair, a cheap kitchen chair; tatty but serviceable
I wrenched the thing out from its resting place
and Judy said:
throw it back, it is horrible
I refused and continued on our way
'you are not putting it in my house' she said.


Once home and Judy gone to fill her day with what she did
I stood the chair in my room
eyed it critically
It occurred to me that it was only a chair when sat upon
otherwise it was clutter.


I found paint and brush, sanded down the wood
then painted it turquoise
I upholstered the seat in faux leopard skin


on strips of paper I wrote out lines from a poem I had written as a youth
gauche lines written about leaving a girl
the girl I loved more than anyone at that time


Oh Sarah...


The poem went:


On leaving you
This morning, although there was no sun
A shadow fell across me
And pools of dew formed
in the impressions left by your fingertips.


I pasted the strips of poem to the slats and spindles of the chair
then stood back
It was no longer just a chair
when sat upon indeed it was a chair
but when standing unsatupon
it became a poem
no longer wasting space.



the next time Judy visited


Oh Judy...


she saw the chair and asked about it
I told her that it was now a poem
I showed her how to read it


She read:


On leaving you
This morning although there was no sun
A shadow fell across me
and pools of dew formed
In the impressions left by your fingertips.


she naturally assumed the poem was for her
We all make that kind of mistake
at one time or another in our lives.


She said: 
Please may I have it in my house.


That tatty old chair from the skip.