Blue and White Cup
On the shelf in Granny’s bungalow in Jodhpur
part of the tea-service trembling in the earthquake,
sole survivor on the mantelpiece at Barton Vicarage.
You could swallow only two mouthfuls of tea
from this porcelain, straight-edged cup,
hold it with your little finger straight.
The keys it holds have lost their locks,
under the ivory elephant a safety pin,
a black and white photo of me, aged 14.
When I’m gone it will be found by the grandchildren,
dropped, perhaps, on the footpath, smashed,
scuffed under a bush, unearthed by developers,
collected by a writer with new stories to tell.
Maggie Reed, originally from Cumbria, now lives in the Malverns, Worcestershire. She has been published in The North magazine, Pennine Platform, Orbis, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Poetry Birmingham, Unpsychology, The Lake, The Beach Hut and Message in a Bottle, as well as numerous anthologies, including Places of Poetry.
3 thoughts on “Maggie Reed”
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I love this poem. Evocative. I stretched my little finger as I read this line. Thank you.
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Thank you, David, for the lovely photo!
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