Odd spot to find a paperweight –
I mean, a windowsill in the office loo
is no repository for even the commonplace.
Yet there it is, with nary a clue
to its ownership or lack thereof, its glaze
winking sun perfect, smilingly ovate.
Still life: “Glass egg on ledge.”
In my mind the tentative title
forms itself, neat, un-dramatic;
a neutral, even recital
to stamp the perfection of the static.
For a moment I regard the image,
then pick the bauble up, not quite clear
what I’ll do with it, wondering too
at this curious epiphany:
loss, abandonment, a rescue
perhaps, in some funny
fairy tale where I play saviour
to vitreous birds in embryo.
Or whatever. For suddenly I’m fond
of the thing, like a schoolboy
and a matchbox beetle, a bond
of unaccountable, irrational joy –
as only another schoolboy would know.