That Parisian woman who did not like
her children is long gone while I remain,
who love my own too much. Although
her red armchair still occupies the space
beneath the window in your study.
There was the day we tried to move it
but the chair refused to go, wedging
its bulk against the door frame.
Some things are not so easily disposed of
and besides, I like that chair; the way
it holds me when I sit in it to read.
Who is to say what makes someone leave
and brings another in her place?
Only that all past lovers leave
their sultry trace.
Farm girl, you call me, despite mid-age,
working in the garden or fetching mail,
still in my pyjamas, past midday.
Who Is to Say
1 May 2014