The Sitter Poem by Barry Stebbings

Nothing disturbed the tranquil air,
The tick, tick of the time-worn clock.
The sitter in the wooden chair
Not hearing the gentle, gentle knock.

An old, old man by the broken door,
Breathed in the still, still air.
The sitter looked but did know
The man who entered there.

‘Who are you? ' the sitter asked,
‘I am Memory? ' the man replied
As the quiet, quiet sitter gazed
Upon a face once recognised.

Memory, seeing no thought to share,
Lingered a short, short while
And the sitter in the wooden chair
Smiled a faint, faint smile

And the clock measured the stillness
As the man left the calm, calm room.
And the sitter sat in silence,
Alone in the still, still room.