Seahorses Sing

The brass seahorses facing away

From each other, surrounded by seashells,

And tender porcelain.

A brass and porcelain compote,

Sitting at the table of my childhood,

Bearing the memories of days

Now forgotten.

A superb and proud bowl,

Still carrying the handprints

Of those I loved,

Now decorating a time passed.

The seahorses take their

Songs, away from those who stay,

And sing only for those who left.

The days of the past lingering,

 Lost in someone else’s song