My armchair is my place of
refuge, of being, of stopping,
of rest before the onslaught of
living hectic, of earning a living,
of being drawn and quartered by
those who have a stake in your life.

My armchair just sits ready always
for my body returning, taking this body
and accepting it in the chill stillness
of morning and the dark of evening,
in these moments of contemplation,
in the joy of nothing in particular.

The armchair waits stubborn:
a womb listening, loving silence,
with a texture and touch that feel like
home, this place where the push
and pull dissolve into quietitude
and there is nothing left but the
trinity of thought, breath and presence.