Small change
So I counted up my coppers:
Less than I had thought.
The bank till girls will curse me,
Then hand me a clean note.
The current has been jumbled
With the odd past; with many
Ha’pennies, yellow threepenny bits;
Victoria’s thick penny.
Light, as a dried leaf, drops one
I never saw before:
A Belgian coin, grey
Gun-metal, from the war,
Left in my father’s pocket.
So this is war: to weigh
Less, to every moment,
Grown hungry, duller, grey.
Why is a hole punched through it?
To save rare steel? To tie
A child’s neck, for long journeys?
Step through. Spend snow’s grey sky.
Page(s) 41
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