This broken hair clip's all I have
Of all we had in years gone by,
And though no hair is locked in place,
Your memory is amplified.
Across the hills, your laughter rang,
But now I hear just ghostly wails,
And no amount of sun or warmth
Can dry my sodden rain boot's trails.
My cup holds only buttercups -
You picked them in the meadow's bloom -
But now your going means that they
Lie wilting in the winter's gloom.
Ben Pickard 2020
*For MA's Three Object thread and Liz's challenge - hair clip, rain boots and cup