-- The Empty Chair --

John Herlihy

In eternal repose, the empty chair,

Forever silent, still, forever we stare.

Once upon a time, a solitary man sat,

His interior of mind held a welcome mat.

He wrote of the best and worst of times,

Depths of his written word echo as chimes.

His characters still live in the minds of many,

Emotions stir thoughts of paucity and plenty.

The likes of David and Oliver, Pip and Tiny Tim,

Readers’ hearts reach out to them upon a whim.

In the room where he wrote, nothing changed,

Nothing stands out of place, nothing rearranged.

The light of a bay window fills this melancholy scene,

Imagine the dust motes know what it all may mean.

The leather writing pad set within a sloping ledge,

To assist the writer as he sat on the chair’s edge.

His writing implements unheld by his slender fingers,

Yet his noble spirit still wanders about, still lingers.

There amid scent of flowers, the branches of trees,

As birds and butterflies float joyously thru leaves.

The room itself as if waiting for the man to come,

The air as if listening for a bell never more rung.

The world still waits for another with such flair,

Yet no one has ever come to fill this empty chair.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Saturday 27 November 2021

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Sir Samuel Luke Fildes (1844-1927)

The Empty Chair, Bad’s Hill

Woodblock engraving and sepia ink on paper