Set of Ornaments
Windmill on the window sill,
there still, the old ornament,
the size of my thumb,
its colour not definite,
say brass yellow gold,
been in the house since childhood,
much older than I am,
will survive me beyond the final chill to come.
Remove the cross that serves as it sails
from its pin, it looks like a lighthouse,
suitable to stand on a rock on the coast.
With two candlesticks and a bottle opener,
it forms a nice set.
Mother and father bought them somewhere.
Maybe they once mentioned the shop
but, of course, I forget.
The twisty stem candlesticks too good to hold candles,
the bottle opener in the shape of a bare woman,
her head tilted to one side, her hands held high,
in a crucified pose, to form a capital letter Y
with a straight stalk, too good to remove bottle tops
from bottles, so I was told.
Such things deserve a few lines,
for the memories they hold.
From a consideration of a set of ornaments, I branch out,
feel the release, to see me in a brown tub boat,
call it a coracle, drawing back two oars, away from all shores,
my decided direction is west, to where the sun sinks has ever seemed best,
my awakened spirit gives strength to my arms and hands,
smiling brightly, eager to sing, laugh, I acknowledge,
always it was a solo voyage, a lone trek,
a solitary song, facing that makes you strong.