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These things will outlive me:
the pewter ladle which we bought
from children at a car boot sale,
made long before their time, before our time,
a simple, gracious, indestructible
thing serving soups and sloppy stews,
pleasant to hold, to wash and dry,
to put back neatly in its drawer;
my favourite wine glass (I admit,
I hope it will outlive me, it’s a fragile thing
I’m handling when I wash it, dry it, put it back
amongst the less loved glasses on the shelf);
meanwhile I hope our fragile planet
will outlive me, will outlive my siblings’
children’s children as a place of beauty,
ease and pleasantness to love and work in,
cherished as we cherish common things;
and yet a fear grows in me as I age —
the thought that we, my generation,
will be cursed by those who follow us
because, as holders of the one essential thing,
we could not — no, we did not — see
that it was slipping from our careless hands.