Morning Poem

Now that he's gone
you've started to sit in that chair
the one that becomes his
for those few days each year
and which we don't use –
mine, with its creaking wicker seat
and the Persian throw
of tribal kings on steeds
and the carmine and orange cushions.

It is morning, it's misty,
the courtyard hazed over
and the skylight above the chair
glazed with a thin skin of rain.

Outside, day starts;
the tits and chaffinches
come to the feeder,
and the plants' million mouths
open themselves to moisture
and the transformation of light,
unconcerned with ideas
about loss, or approaching dark.


– Roselle Angwin