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You’ll take my ‘blue-dash’ charger,
and will give me forty pounds?
What’s that? You’ll make it fifty,
if I’ll part with it?
No, put away your wallet, and be off
upon your rounds,
for he who takes that dish will take
my heart with it.

It’s stood upon that shelf for ninety
years – no, more,
a hundred – for ’twas there ere I was
born;
its crudely painted pattern represents
the Fall of Man,
’twas made when Holy Writ was not for
scorn.

Excuse me just a moment while I stop
to wipe my eyes,
my sight’s not what it was in yesteryear;
to pick out Eve and Adam from the
serpent in the tree,
is more than I can manage, sitting here.

But there, I like it by me to remind
me of old times,
of loved ones who have gone their
destined ways;
’tis all the last war left me of my
parents’ treasured things,
a keepsake to recall my girlhood days

with thoughts of simple pleasures,
steadfast faith in God on high,
of days when hardship lived with sweet
repose;
d’you think your fifty pounds, or even
ten times that amount
would be an ample recompense for those?

So put away your note-case – let my
piece of delft remain
above my rocking chair, safe in its
place;
what need of extra money at the age
of fours-score-ten,
when wealthy in contentment and
God’s Grace?

T. C. Hudson 1976

© T. C. Hudson.

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