Theft

Of all the things he stole, what I miss most
is that old bracelet – no, its silver charms:

the guardian angel with her outstretched arms;
a house whose lifting roof reveals a ghost;

the oblong book that hides an oval locket;
a disc that spins, engraved both sides with lines

which don’t make sense from either side alone
but spell love for a while after you flick it.

Helen Evans



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