The Storytellers Chair


As still and cold as dead grey ash
Burn marks about its worn rose sash
In darkened space an old forgotten chair
Once warm wood, red leather and horse hair
Through the veil of time I see
Seated there the Seanachi
By bright warm fire a voice that speaks and sings
As history and sweet voice he brings
Images of he who claimed it for his own
His storytelling, fiddle playing throne
Now sitting threadbare and worn
An unused relic of time long gone.
A life story told in scars and cracks
Its binding pulled from tarnished tacks
And casters jammed with dirt and grit
Its broken now but still there it sits.
So tonight I will see it destroyed
In memory of he that died
To honour his glorious Gaelic soul
I’ll haul its carcass to the coals
And burn it on the May Day fire
In memory of him. A funeral pyre.

© Dave Kavanagh @

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