Like a shuffling caterpillar we enter the room.
Our sole source of daylight, a generous arched window
looking out upon a troubled ocean.
Books, paintings, furnishings are all just so,
whilst paint and polish odours
dance merrily hither and thither.
Presently, my gaze wanders to the room's centre.
There, glazed in a yellowing autumnal shadow,
and as clean as a seashell,
a confident looking chintz chair.
It stares at us.
As if daring any one of us
to challenge its presence.
No one does of course.
Not audibly anyhow.
Pressing button five on
my audio guide keypad,
I listen.
[ play guide ]
' In this room is the chair.
The very chair in which the Duke of Wellington,
( Lord Warden ) died, in 1852, following a stroke '
[ pause guide ]
With the chair's identity known,
I wrestle to unfrown many questions.
Is death exclusive to this room ?
Exclusive to this chair ?
Exclusive to Wellington ?
Why immortalise a 'Lord Warden' ?
Why ignore countless others ?
A man died Monday morning, while shopping at Tescos.
Collapsed by the tinned soups like a felled animal.
Will a modest crowd be gathered at Tescos two centuries from now,
- audio guides to hand -
attending an account of this deceased shopper's life ?
Why was our shopper not buried in a sarcophagus ?
Was he any less deserving ?
Was he any less a human being ?
Was the price too prohibitive ?
Was Wellington simply a class act ?
So too his funeral ?
(His)tory....Simply bursting with questions.
[ play guide ]
Poem copyright© Colin Baker. 2005