JOHN FREEMAN
THE CHAIR
HE chair was made
By hands long dead,
Polished by many bodies sitting there,
Until the wood-lines flowed as clean as waves.
Mine sat restless there, 5
Or popped to stare
Hugged the low kitchen with fond eyes
Or tired eyes that looked at nothing at all.
Or watched from the smoke rise
The flame's snake-eyes, 10
Up the black-bearded chimney leap;
Then on my shoulder my dull head would drop.
And half asleep
I heard her creep-^
Her never-singing ftps shut fast, 15
Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.
Then, at last,
My lids upcast,
Our eyes met, I smited and she smiled,
And I shut mine again and truly slept. 20
Was I that child
Fretful, sick, wild?
Was that you moving soft and soft r
rBetween the rooms if I but played at sleep ?
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