Blue and white combined in delicate dance of decoration,
dusted by the day and years, held upon a flimsy shelf,
in a shop, lost down languishing alleys of the city.
I found you, long ago, entranced by beauty, shape and
feel, that magic sense of china finely wrought, by
unknown hands, fired, painted, glazed and then brought
forth to be displayed and purchased. But for what?
The shape a cradling bowl, womb-like with narrowed
source, rising to fulsome hips, made to hold, contain,
preserve, nurture, protect, encase, with a small
but certain lid, which settles into shallow depths of neck
and mouth, the breath and memory held for  your eternity,
and the contents imprisoned for mine, as the glue set
hard around smooth edges which once were free, but
now denied access, knowledge, revelation of that which
someone wished to hide. I could dissolve that glue, break
the seal, open up and then reveal, lay waste your truth
upon the world – but I will not. Secrets are a precious
thing and you hold one in the heart of yourself for reasons
beyond my knowing and in which imagination can hold
hands with respect and rejoice in the silent mystery.



About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Urn

  1. julespaige says:

    Like a child’s secret cigar box chest of treasures…a rock, rubber band, butterfly wing, acorn cap –
    The first thing I thought of was … well would you want to know? 🙂
    Be well, Jules

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s