Scribblings – Pence Pieces

I dreamed the sea bronze,

was hit by a hail of ha’pennies –

smirking queens coining it in,

reminding Grandad we’d gone decimal.

 

If I was lucky I might discover ten pence

by the phone box – not a two-shillings one,

but a new crowned lion, moon-shiny.

I knew a lass who’d found a pound,

 

puddle-sogged, half-hid among old leaves.

Myself, I’d lost Britannia in the post,

(a birthday card which never came).

Wondered what, in a hundred years,

 

would pass for currency – a square thirty-seven

pence piece, brassy, King’s head mocking

its ancestry chucked in with florins, farthings

and tanners, lucky Chinese coins, unchanged pesetas

 

left in a tin to green forever.

There must be a pair of tuppences somewhere

bearing the imprint of my eyes, one dark

spiderleg lash trapped among copper feathers.

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