I found an autumn necklace in the hedge,
silken threads, strung with tiny beads.
Yet when I touched a strand it fell,
leaving only scattered tears.
I found a winter diamond on the wall,
cold and sharp as dragon’s scale.
Yet though I locked it in a box,
somehow it stole itself away.
I found spring dancers in the wood,
their faces reaching for the sun.
Yet when I put them in a glass
each grew heavy on its stem.
I found a summer moon beside the road,
floating in a shallow pool.
Yet as I lifted it, it broke.
I cried: I’d meant to let it go.
Mum wrapped me in her strong warm arms,
Showed me the moon, still small and new.
Some things, she said, cannot be owned,
then gave me a kiss. I have it still.
© Sue Hardy-Dawson from Where Zebras Go (Otter-Barry Books)