A purdonium beside an old harmonium.
In a sweet little pot, an erythronium,
Which together with a vase of wisteria,
Do their best to bring spring joy,
Without attempting to destroy
The mood of the stuffy interior.
A painted duck, a decoy,
Sits atop a teapoy,
Squashed in beside a lowboy,
Of beautifully figured calamander,
Glows, despite the gloom
At the edge of the room,
As does the veneer
Upon the chiffonier,
Or is it made of solid pallisander?
In the centre stands a table,
One of many,
Shiny, stable,
Which of course
Leads one to dream of eating horse
Or courses of horses,
Or not any.
A burr wood Davenport,
Hides beside an old oak court
Or was it an aumbry or a livery?
It is ancient anyway,
With some worm and old decay,
And its atmosphere leaves me feeling shivery.
An imposing secretaire,
Inlaid with woods most rare,
Amboyna, birdseye maple and hare,
Takes up too much space
And blocks out the light
With it’s height
And with its span,
And the rather splendid sight,
Of an escritoire or bookcase,
Laburnum, double domed, Queen Anne.
A walnut, high backed chair,
With a hand turned barley twist,
Has an air of despair,
Seems aware of the cares of tomorrow,
Worn down and with a list,
As if sat upon by Daddy,
It stands beside a kist,
Or is it a coffer or mule?
Its upholstery worked with crewel,
Is of faded, subtle hues,
Where once there had been pink
I begin to think,
Now were only blues,
And ancient sorrow.
I'll come back and poke about,
When the family are out,
There's a coromandel caddy
I must borrow.
