Robyn Sarah(b. 1949)
Relics
Digging a new
cellar a c c e s s
you unearth
a cat's skull. T h e n
a metal stencil, rust-
encrusted. T h e n
the small bottle
in which ink
has dried black
with the cap
rusted on. And
other bottles—small
vials, of coloured
pharmacist's glass,
a n d — i n t a c t —
filled with packed dirt,
its s u r f a c e glazed
with rainbow p a t i n a —
the wide-lipped, plain
round thick-glassed pint
of childhood gone,
that h e l d — a g a i n
and a g a i n — f r e s h
c r e a m (thick too)
waiting, capped,
each morning
on the stoop.