I have a box of broken glass,
Of pottery tin and pieces shattered.
They were a part of my life
when they were whole ,
when they were used and worn
and their beauty mattered.
Now they sit beneath a bed,
A memory for me,
A reminder of a time and place
Where love was shared and tears were shed
And days were full and free.
These are what is left me now,
Of most my things I find no traces,
A box of loss,
and yet within,
their ashen coats and blistered faces,
Hope peers through,
A new life begins
And colour fills the empty spaces