Buttons by Jacob Armstrong

The faint smell of whisky, cigarette smoke and fresh coal,

Warmth from the blazing hearth caresses my spine.

Sat on a mottled carpet with a sheet of crumpled newspaper,

The gilded box emptied, its precious contents strewn across the floor.

 

Each plastic round a shining gem;

Sifting through swathes of garish jewels,

A flash of apricot, a glimmer of silver shimmers

from deep in this glut of great beauty,

As Jack has a fag, sat in his armchair.

 

Panning through a jaded treasure chest,

Its vibrant cache rousing childhood memories.

 

Memories of a dying world,

Of battered coal sheds, of the Pools,

And of buttons.