The thing with mugs is that they
Don't ever seem to break,
But gather over the years as a
Collection of patterns filling
The shelves and then spilling
To the next. Fired and glazed
Memories of time misplaced.

St Kilda, an astonishing outcrop of stone
In an inhospitable sea. Once home
To hard men who worked to live;
Hanging from the storm swept cliffs
Gathering birdshit for distant market;
A ruined village; a concrete
Bunker whence soldiers seek
Electronically for non existent threats;
A stop off spot for passing yachts.

Paris, elegant and busy; of food and follies,
Art and strong scented tobacco.
Brighton, of the pebble beach,
White Georgian Terraces
And cold blustery breeze.
Sidney, New York,
Amsterdam and more.

Towns, obscure, and unpronounceable,
Groups like Poetry International,
Holidays past but unforgettable,
Gifts received but horrible.
Life lived; now indelible
And Love recalled over hot coffee
From mugs etched
With the loved one's name.

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