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Has its own story:
One of moves made
At the hands of
Father or son or
Grandfather who
Offered them as a
Gift one Christmas
To his Grandson.
Knowing he had not
Long to live
He took them from
A dusty shelf and
Repainted those that
Were black
And revarnished
Those that were white.
Illness and age left paint
Where it
Should not be
Adding ambiguity
To our play -
The predictable patterns
of a timeless game
Knocked slightly askew.
Quite a subtle poem. There is melody in it which links to my childhood; where I used to play chess with my father and my grandfather. All in all, quite a good and impresionistic poem.
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