A silly little poem written in jest, but i rather like it:
So often bare and bereft,
corners pose awkward questions,
if left empty to gather dust.
They are awkward to clean,
but shall i let them get dirty,
until cobwebs can be seen.
Or fill them all in,
with furniture and art,
a soft reading chair here,
corner library there.
Potted plants where there is light,
a shrine to Buddha,
in that dark spot next to the fireplace.
No bare and bereft corners here.
Do I interpret a deeper meaning,
am i filling in holes?
Surely just a dislike of corners?
Perhaps just in case,
i should take myself,
to the naughty step on the stairs.
(KC March 2011)