Coins in the Trunk

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Coins in the Trunk


Who are we?

Why are we here?

How can we prove that we were?


Answering these questions we have nothing

Nothing to give except what we do

This one brays coins in with his heel

into a slab of wood

“This is the trace of me” he says

“I give away what I worked for to save.

I was here, I drove in these pence

and this I leave behind

to show that I had life -

that I did Something

What was it? – who knows……

I leave this to show

that it was me here

I stood out

I was here, really here

This is my MARK”.


The wood will burn

and the coins will melt down

for scrap

nothing will remain – nothing.


I am his kin

Though my coin is paper

I waste it too.

Ozymandias of the village and I,

- or was it A.N.Other?


We will never know

what became of our pennies.


◄ Watching the Eclipse

Snug ►


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Sun 27th Jan 2019 23:20

Very perceptive piece, Alan. I remember throwing a coin into the Thames from a bridge, whereupon my father chided me , thinking it a rash move. I told him, that in times to come it might be re discovered, and set someone thinking. What more can we really do in different formats.


Big Sal

Sun 27th Jan 2019 15:57

Excellent thought-provoking piece, Alan.

That's often my only hope when writing poetry anymore, is that it will be preserved in some way, shape, or form after I'm long gone.


No stone is too small to NOT make a ripple of some effect.

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