When he is a child, on warm
winter nights in the heart
of a home and beside
the fire, he holds amber
and then puts it away.
And a man then, he turns his arms
blue and black
with letter-writers, warms unsaid.
But soon the plant dies
on the sill, and even though
he keeps bright things nearby and
holds her close,
creeping feelers curl him down
and cut him.
Old and bent, by the window
biding his time until his old friend
comes to beat down the door,
and bear him onwards.
He reaches down,
hand round the vessel
and tipped over a glass,
all gone amber and sparkling
in the firelight.