The leftover Christmas card,

the mass produced greeting

of some Robin, the symbol

of endeavour in hardship,

of Gypsy fortune,

is now used as a place mat

for the unceasingly hot

cups of tea that I ferry

back and forth from the kitchen,

and the stain of the rim spreads outwards,

inwards and towards its beak.

 

The message inside could have been hand-written

by anyone, but the scrawl was clumsily

attached by you

and I loved it, and whilst the carefully

scripted card, etched painfully for over

an hour went into a cupboard

to keep, to be so called treasured

until like me it is all but dust

and no substance,

I use your card as place mat

so I can keep it in my sight every day.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015