I stir my coffee. The spoon squeaks
against the smooth glaze,
plain chocolate colour,
banded with orange sun circles
I let it rest, squat sturdy cylinder,
on my palm, feel the warm comfort
of clay on clay, like hope restored
There was a wall-cupboard
in my mother's kitchen;
father built and fixed it
when they first moved in, new-married,
in the mid-nineteen-twenties;
she waited nearly thirty years
before he fitted the glass doors.
It was here the mug had its place;
I would bring it out to drink from,
while we sat and talked
by the bumbling gas fire
after his death, in the years
that seemed to go on for ever.
A year ago
I reached it down for the last time.
Now, in a different house,
I lift it on my palm
to gaze at its proud gleam
in bright January sunlight,
We are fellow travellers.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved