Silver and Old Rose

Image may contain: food

Sunday brought a silver-dark bowl
Lustrous with the shadowing
Of the hundreds of Sundays that
Bore it, cities and homes and hands
That held it. Strings of beads, bright
Stones, little guest towelettes –
Every room and table it graced has
Traced its story in muted light
The shine of dark silver undulled.
This Sunday I took out the plant it harboured
And gently rubbed the years away.
The scrub held my greyish rue, even
The towel clutched stains of regret
I repotted the plant and put in dried roses
Instead. This is perhaps the work of Sundays
Transmuting shadows into roses
The silver ready for the ink of future memories
Holding the old ones in red.

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