14 OCTOBER 1989, Page 41

Neglect

Under the seat of the old wicker chair, Formed not of legs but a basket upside down, A little room has prospered on its own While you in sun would sprawl and read and frown.

The creaking as you shifted twanged the webs, And when you dropped a cushion thunder struck. Today you tip it over by mistake And take a broom and twiddle out the muck And leave creation to start up again.

Not quite — some holes and corners miss the broom. You did not like that dangling grub or worm But are too lazy to wash out a room Which only by an accident appears, So let it weave and crawl for some more years.

Alan Dixon