by Garry Kilworth
I ponder on what became
of the gold given to the infant godchild
at his birth.
The frankincense and myrrh of course
has long since evaporated.
But gold is gold,
solid, lasting, heavy with value.
Perhaps it made an Episcopal mitre,
altar chalice, thurible chain, sunshaped monstrance?
No, too contrived.
Or - listen - a christening gift,
for one who later became a pope?
Much too contrived.
Was it sliced into coin, or
crafted into frivolous jewellery?
Not inspiring enough.
Is there - oh could there be - a golden ring?
A wondrous ring which brings the wearer immunity
against disease - and even death?
What hope to treasure-seekers and lovers
of fantastic tales!
My final theory is a simpler view:
the boychild lobbed this lump of Mammon’s ore,
somewhere irretrievable -
into the dark-green deeps
or down some soundless chasm -
flung it in a state of mild guilt
the way of most unwanted birthday gifts:
hideous neckties, plaid socks,
revolving pencils -
things without soul.
©2007 Garry Kilworth
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