Tony Turner
The Eggspoon
You can take anything you like, he said,
waving around his mother’s room off-handedly.
Heavy curtains hung darkly; in the gloom
cabinets groaned with bric-a-brac, Victoriana.
Unable to find a focus
my eyes panicked
darting from thing to thing
until I saw the spoon.
The silver it once bore so brightly
was worn away, corroded.
The stain in the bowl looked like the yolk
of the last egg it entered. My fingers traced
over ravages of half-remembered time
smelt old, decayed, metallic.
But it was slim, petite, delicate.
In the handle, two patches of inlay
smiled china-blue at me. The beaded decoration
bubbled like the laugh below her voice
in her days of silver.
I’ll take this, I said.
Page(s) 49
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