Old Copper Pot

It sat on the table,

the old copper pot,

made me wriggle my toes

in pleasure each time

I saw the wild roses

growing there.

No sweet smelling petals,

No false promises,

No sad tales told

by fireside of lost loves

who had forgot to give

their damsel a bouquet.

Nay, it was just an old copper pot,

all stained with age,

smelling of acid metal tang

but in it grew

in great profusion

the wild roses of my youth,

as if they knew the memories

they strewed upon my days

and with which my evenings

came alight with joy.

© Nyuka Anaïs Laurent 02.02.2010