Lying in a crate of dusty odd ends
One Royal Wedding mug, four Poole plates, a Pyrex bowl, and me.
Newsprint of the masses - the Daily Mail - wraps them up,
Enclosed within my own space
Little has changed. My colours have not faded with the years;
I have not cracked in my splendid isolation;
No chips on my shoulder. Nonetheless
Exclusion and rejection are hard to bear.
Snubbed by those who did not understand my shape and strong colours.
Safe from careless children’s hands, closeted in my own box that Clarice designed for me.
Light never got a chance to diminish my no longer fashionable brightness. I’m pristine,
Only it’s not how it should have been. There should have been
Numerous years of service
Earning kudos for the great Cafés,
Living with numerous cups and saucers, plates decked with cakes,
Indulged by silverware, by cosies, hot water and first flush Darjeeling teas.
Not left, forgotten, unwanted, uncared for as the years passed by.
Empty, cold, unloved.
Sitting my days out in my box. Discarded, disregarded.
Stuck up in the attic, unrecognised, unnoticed.
Entering a charity shop? Do they think I’m fake?
Not even an auction house! How degrading,
Demeaning. But still the real thing I remain. Me .
© Sheila Ash 2nd April 2017
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