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