I see it in others.
The gentle touch.
Been together for so long.
The patina.
Why did you leave me
long before the surface
was all rubbed to a gentle
mirror shine?
To make that object
that we feel the need to touch?
The patina.
The glow, the richness.
Being robbed of that conclusion
seems unfair
somehow.
And so I polish
the things special to me.
The intrinsic, small and loyal things.
I’ve nothing more to do.
Not until I achieve what I long for.
The patina.
Rubbish Hatta! Your poems are brill! xx
<Deleted User> (7790)
Sat 10th Apr 2010 12:42
I'm patina dog, I'm patina Putin, I'm patina smile on a face of a fluffy ol' fog. 'Patina' is a beautiful word and this poem is achingly beautiful. My, ahem, poems have little more than a bit of a buff by comparison :) xx
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Dave D Poet Rhumour
Thu 15th Apr 2010 11:15
A rather wonderful analogy Ann - patina does seem to encompass a growing value and tenderness. :)