A little jewel of a poem today from Louise J Jones.
Keepsakes She put them in a drawer: the spring storm that flung out bats, the Dutch-orange scarf of crepe-de-chine. The rushed trunk call that was overheard. She laid them flat: the slither of mica from northern lands, the going-along with it again, the staggered night when neither touched the other. A small cup of rain. She kept them all: the kink of a word misunderstood,
