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
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