Grandad’s Chair

by Jane Edwards aged 15

his sour pinch mouth and coat hanger curl nose
even that white wire hair
are only whips of imagination
a ghost woven from their strands
many a beer laughter evening
would he spend on the worn leather chair
which, now, is all that is left
of that kindly crinkle face
but I know
that his smile lines its creases
and his life fray’s its edges
unravelled like time’s curfew

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