‘On finding two ‘directors chairs’ at the back of the shed’
Fifteen years you’ve hidden in the dark and no-one has sat on you.
A pair. Folded and wrinkled and spattered with bird shit.
I think I’ll brush you off and set you up in the Autumn sun.
There’s life in you yet. You pair.
Come rain, (oh yes there will be rain), and frost.
You’ll weather the weather.
Perhaps fifteen years more. Or more.