The broken tea cup lay,
Shattered in the bin,
Discarded by someone who didn’t understand,
It’s true beauty.
‘It’s just a cup’ he said.
‘But it is my favourite’ the girl cried,
‘You can always get another one’ he continued.
No you can’t.
This one was beautiful.
And everything beautiful gets taken away from me,
It’s discarded into the bin, tossed aside like last night’s cold dinner.
It was special,
It invoked inspiration,
It reminded the girl of childlikeness and awe,
It was limited edition,
No more were made.
And here it lay,
But it wasn’t to the girl,
The girl loved beauty,
She longed for it,
She tried to find ways to bring it into her cluttered, busy, disorganised life.
A cup of tea in that cup,
It transported her from an adult,
Into a wonderland of hopes and dreams.
She dreamt with that cup,
She wrote with that cup.
And now here it was broken,
No longer needed, no longer regarded,
‘It could be replaced’ he said,
‘No it couldn’t.’
By Diana Braybrooke ©