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.