Thursday, August 2, 2007


A china milk jug, slightly chipped,
Adorned with roses on the briar,
By sea of dust is tightly gripped
Upon the mantle o’er the fire.
I pick it up with idle thought
And leave a circle, clear and stark.
So houseproud once, she now cares naught,
Her mind at peace, befogged and dark.
In hope, I peer inside to find
A window opened on the past,
A stony footpath, clearly signed,
Converging verges, lightly grassed.

A paperclip, contrite and small.
A button, shiny tortoiseshell.
A scrap of paper in a ball.
The broken clapper of a bell.
An English penny, cold and round,
Now tarnished with a steel-blue hue.
A twisted matchstick, frail and browned.

What treasures do old dears accrue!

Oh mother dear, thy death draws near.
Shall I consign these to the bin?
If they should swiftly disappear,
Would you even raise your chin?
But no. I’ll sadly leave them be,
These hieroglyphics so miscast,
Upon the wooden dust-strewn scree
Within the circle of your past.

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