Ichabod

Who trod these boards, and at what stage,

patina layered, dust to dust,

the weak creak furniture ignored,

a scene, neglect, forgotten acts?

See slant of legs from table sloped,

wide gait to help the balanced weight,

as seek, specific, gravity;

flats, foot, cove beading, indistinct -

as bottles, so glass, carpentry,

if smile by shoulder, lost in shades.

Such place to make their presence felt,

what wights, wraith-shapes once framed this space,

grey outlook onto living street

through splattered panes of globule rain

with window smear, veiled grainy beer,

and drear hung drapes to draw across.

A bier for long past days and ways,

departed glory in the waste.

That alcove panelled, sill and grill,

grand papered wall now less defined,

Lincrusta, anaglypta died,

a skip from grandeur as its end.

Did taller lounge on emptied kegs,

pair cooper’s casks, their barrelled hoops

withstand the years, unlike the chair,

whose spindles bowed, with split ends seat,

a farmhouse air now littered, passed

those legs galore from tops to floor,

a drinker’s dozen, maybe more?

What filtered mood supplied to us

as we decide what route to take,

the studio or rested place,

with stagecraft props or history?

So trace if reckon real or reel,

to beckon us or leave us cold;

grant grace to face the questions asked,

and if we find none, move us, on?