From new it was a favourite;
held you breastfeeding
through soaps and daytime telly.
Rusk splattered,
a welcome retreat,
floral covered oasis
in a pre school world.
‘Mum’s chair,’
where much of family
life was managed,
later lectures on
‘wrong crowds’ delivered.
Comforting arms cig ash scorched
while ‘waiting up’ for a safe return.
The place you spent
a week after she did not;
moving only for toilet or drink,
and then slow as her
needle caused clot.

By a coffee table
where pain gets drowned-
surface broken by bubbling O’s;
wine numbs guilt’s constant snipes,
while a buttonless backrest displays frayed holes.

Christopher Major