Her collection of quiescent discs,
Lay dormant in their amber-lined tomb,
Awaiting arousal with a shake, rattle and roll.
A cache of treasures – sparkling
Silver, sapphires and emeralds;
Ametrines spinning purple into gold.
Rubies, diamonds, iridescent mother of pearl,
A veritable trove of pleasure
To my childish eyes
Yet a source of thrift to hers –
A harkening back to days of
Make do and mend.
“Waste not, want not,” she’d say
A smile hovering on her lips
“They may come in handy one day.”
They never did.
By Valerie Evans