These days, I use this place as my bolt hole. Down the steps and tucked away in the deep, damp corner, just by the cobwebbed-rack, rests her old nursing chair. As i sit, honeyed leather and obliging springs take my weight and notes of nostalgia enfold me, easing me instantly. The day's tension slips, unravelling like ribbon from my relaxing grasp; breathing settles and the need for Merlot, now ebbs away, away, away. . .
The writer brought a vivid feeling of comfort in lines like "As i sit, honeyed leather and obliging springs take my weight and notes of nostalgia enfold me" and "unravelling like ribbon from my relaxing grasp". A very enjoyable read.
What a beautifully detailed little piece this is, Michael. The idea of using a wine cellar as 'bolt hole' without actually drinking once there is intriguing (especially to me, I might add). But only because there is something far more comforting to you there: an 'obliging' chair which conjures 'notes of nostalgia' and eases your tension because of who it once belonged to. Who? we, the reader, cannot be entirely sure, but a grandparent is a warming thought.
A funny sort of juxtaposition is the result here - the contrast between what may have been the wine's ill-effects on you and what is actually the chair's cathartic influence.
'unravelling like ribbon from my relaxing grasp' - Michael, you almost sent me to sleep at the close of this poem. Nominated. Now, off for a nice glass of Shiraz and a bit of cheese. I just wish I had a bloody comfortable chair to enjoy it in...