Not gold nor gems in hidden drawers,
But a chipped old mug with coffee pores.
A jumper frayed, a threadbare sleeve—
Still smells like home each time I leave.
A fossil found on Dorset shore,
Half a shark tooth, maybe more.
Ollie’s drawing (is that a goat?)—
Hung with pride above my coat.
A wooden spoon with pasta scars,
The Camembert dreams, the garlic wars.
A beard trimmer (vital, you see),
Keeps the chin neat, just like me.
A notebook filled with half-baked thoughts,
Of gluten-free rants and food I’ve botched.
A photo of us, beachside breeze,
Helen’s smile, and muddy knees.
I don’t need much, but what I keep
Are stories that refuse to sleep.
They’re not just things—they’re threads, they’re glue—
Binding the old me to the new.
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