His Chair

Here he idled silent hours-

tea, newspapers, memories.

Here he sat but seemed so far-

sometimes lost in reveries.

Half shut window, half shut eyes-

often in noons he napped here. 

But his smile could not disguise

the thrill of ice cream with beer. 

Now his indented chair squeaks-

his deep-seated presence speaks.

Window

High up a house I sat by the window,

and let me eyes flutter till they watered.

On a quiet street where trams tinged below,

and wriggled through the old town and sauntered.

In the distance waltzed the colourful sails

to the rhythm of the melodic sea.  

Their lazy swagger left a frothy trail,

and naughty waves rippled with ecstasy.

And across my house lived an old lady

who sprinkled, caressed her pots of lilies.

She gazed at the trams from her balcony-

bemused by the riders ride wavily.

My long window frame filmed pieces of time-

with mugs of coffee, tumblers of red wine.