silvered moon
in a cloudless sky
bright sun
© Rachel Green February 2025
My father's lifetime hoard instilled in me
to find a use for every stub of wood
collect from ash the nails and screws I see
saving money I would otherwise have stood.
But when he died we cleared away the junk
that brought no comfort in his final years
when illness wracked his frame, this thrifty monk
reduced himself to one room bathed in tears.
A tin of silver sixpennies; a hoard
of coins pre-decimal and worthless still
and all my mother's clothes, since her death stored
in trunk and wardrobe, cupboards all to fill.
Now I'm as old as he was when he passed
I'll give away possessions to the last.
© Rachel Green February 2025
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