The Auction

Silver speckled tea set,
angular handles,
curved spout,
fine letters engraved
on the underside.
And me,
sitting in the garden
aged four or five,
pouring air and dust
and dreams
into a cup, offering it
to my imaginary friend.
Sold for £150.

Mahogany bookcase,
deep shelves,
bobbled pattern,
thick lines carved
into wood coloured like
rich autumn leaves.
And Granddad
sifting through books,
mind roaming,
questioning Descartes
and Plato
and Rousseau.
Sold for £50.

Raggedy Ann doll,
white dotted
cobalt blue dress,
straight red yarn hair
that frames her
child drawn face.
And Nana
in 1923,
slumped on the floor
crying and
cuddling and
whispering that she
was her only friend.
Sold for £85.

Metal sewing thimble,
slate coloured,
thin lines imprinted
around the edge
alongside
T.W.
And Ma,
holding brown thread,
to sew badges onto
my brownies sash,
frowning and
cursing and shouting
that the thread
just won't go through.
Sold for £100.

All these objects,
this junk,
this stuff,
my stuff
now sits in another garden,
another house
in other hands.
While I'm left
with nothing but
memories.
Only they can't be sold.