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