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The pockets of my heart
admit no coin, the silent folds
wherein I keep love’s promissory
notes are not for prying fingers
sewn nor bribe, long after purchase
sought and turned away.

Whate’er I thought and did
when love had seemed to turn
his back is of no consequence
to what I hold and trade and
credit well today. My heart
no ledger keeps, but neither will
she stand, a little match girl
shivering, in cold and wind
when open arms and crackling
fire wait at home to kiss these
hands and warm the bottled
ink I bought in Christwell’s
High Street shop and
carry in my pocket
just for you.


© Elaine Stirling, 2013