The price of simple things

  • Posted on December 15, 2012 at 10:57 am

However delicate this filigree
this silver, iron or gold –

however fine and beautiful this glass,
its colours making sunlight speak –

however fleet and bright this flute
edging silver in sibilant song –

you shall not see or feel the fire,
the furnace finding them from stone.

Their faces and voices all felt fair,
warm in a way their cold touch cannot tell

set from white heat, bled to life,
beaten, drawn and mastered

into taut treasures that tell
stories, songs and longings

of long, long ago. Ore and wonder
as old as their ancestral home.

Trauma and high energy are
the price of simple things

the rocks that make our hills,
crumbled, melted into light.


2011 © Andie Davidson


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