Cynthia Rowe

Gran’s Bijoux

All Hallows' Eve
a faux cobweb traps
the passer-by

She had read somewhere, probably in one of her Georges Simenon novels, that the best place to hide one’s jewellery is in plain sight. Since then, she puts woven baskets on her dressing table oozing beads, overflowing with ropes of African amber, bracelets of semi-precious stones in softly-gleaming colours. Buried deep in these tangles of inexpensive exotica nestles the ‘real deal’ – her small but precious diamond ring, a cushion cut sapphire discovered by her husband in India, pigeon blood ruby earrings bequeathed by her mother-in-law, a tennis bracelet of dubious provenance. And yet, the burglars – for the bars on her windows are regularly breached – have an unerring eye for the ‘good stuff’. A battle of wits? The boredom of old age? ‘You can’t take it with you,’ she says. I suspect she revels in the game.

curved bridge
the ebb and flow
of cherry petals