No-one moves or speaks
in the circle of reverie.
Six hundred years
power the air as they wait
held by the soft chair arms, weight
bone-light on the draylon.

She and I play scrabble
on the table shine, invent
codes while Vera chafes
fire in Wally’s lap. Only I notice
her mount his chair arm,
her old roan back in Rahinnane
the pair of them heads back
eyes tight shut, flying
to the body’s far reaches
in the deathly lounge
where I thought nothing
moved all day except their eyes.

When he died, Vera
had no knowing who
would be next in his chair.
The sight of its wings
set her rocking, the same
rhythm as she forgot
and forgot and bent over
the table, tongued a trail
across old mahogany,
as though tasting a lover’s skin.