Old Girl.

The frail old girl sits stooped in her chair,

Staring out of the window,

 With a tear welling up in her eye,

The chair tells a story of a century gone by,

Each tatter and chip holds a passing of life,

What has this old girl got left to live for,

Her body has known trouble and strife.

The legs are rickety on this old chair,

Her fingers struggle to write her name, which is Claire.

She struggles with a comb to comb her hair

Eyes strain focusing on what the Newspaper says.

Then she gets a cup of tea,

And hopes that this will break the monotony.

Does anybody care about the old girl in her chair.

The sun through the window shines bright on the tattered chair,

The Old girl smiles as her mind wanders back to her youth

at play,

The days when without care, she paddled and played all day,

In the stream that ran through the buttercup field in May.

Her eyes slowly close from the heat of the sun,

She dreams of the time her passing time will come,

The old girls body decided, enough time I've done.

The last breath of life is let out with a sigh.

All that is left is memories ingrained,

In that old and tattered , worn out chair.

it is now for sale, will anybody buy??

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