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 As milled silver I was welcome

In every gutter, tinkling over cobbles

I rang the truth loudly on solid-oak counters

And tills tolled for me clear as bells.
Boldly I gave myself to many, Slipped from moist palm to pocket, Pirouetting without points, jingling With dull coppers and important keys.
First I was lost in a hundred Children’s essays, found myself With pearls in secret pockets, Counterfeit and shiny.
Then I discovered in a deed-box, Frowned over as I beamed a dusty smile Of centuries, polished till I pierced the fondness Nastily, with a sickly yellow glare.
My smooth face made the end easy; I piled up with the rest, counted and Columned, exchanging memories In a sudden hot flood of death.

by Barry Tebb
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