Ornaments


Of course I possess some
ornaments of my own,
mostly third-hand
cheap beauty browsed
at market stalls,
the background of those
shapes and glazes
got from random houses

quite unknown to me
but continuing that thread
of affection
from previous owners,
this inheritance of lead crystal,
cranberry, gold leaf, thrown and cut
jugs and vases
streaked with millefiori.

These passive things,
some held with glue,
have love accrued
whenever I gaze on them,
sullen with light in their places,
heavy with secret
histories and a haze of dust.

On my mother's dressing table
lived a pea-green cruet set
on a tray that held clips
and rings and scent of cosmetic.
I loved the clunky clink
of crown-topped lids
each time I poked inside.

One day to my distress
they were no more
– vanished with their stories,
with my fingerprints all sent away
to a very lucky
jumble sale.

But as the passing years roll by,
collecting cracks, chips and tales of my own,
my fond remembrance only grows
– that moulded glass I seek for still
among the finds and chancey thrills
of other people's bric-à-brac.

Clive Donovan

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Clive Donovan would be pleased to hear them.