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Hilary Jayne

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Settee

You brown hulk, you synthetic velvet,
you tea-chest frame, you buttonback
that digs in backs, you contravention
of fire regulations, you placation
to the husband god of old, you sea
of gravied molasses on flattened foam,
you swallower of loose change,
you cat’s playground, you building site
of squabbles with your soft slabs,
your cotton cover like debris
from an outgoing tide, nicked
and ridged from the convolutions
of departing bottoms, you cause
of ceaseless pull and tuck,
you labour-creating, rain-watching
monthly soak, wring, peg, fold
smooth, pull, tuck, you
make me so badly want the sofa
slightly reduced in the sale in Chadds
I still can’t afford - the beech frame
grained in the chalk of Chiltern woods,
honed, perfectly jointed
and ample with feather cushions in the colours
of the dawn in deserts - terracotta, sand,
that azure fade round a frosty moon.

You acquisition on the never-never,
you long-forgotten desire haunting me still,
you unsellable, undumpable pile,
you albatross, you only place to sit down.

 

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