A Ramekin

This little glass ramekin,
How far together
We have journeyed,
Holds hoisin sauce this evening,
Yesterday, a creme brulee,
And me with my bag of woes
Just as good a preservative
As the jelly-jailing citruses
Filling the belly of a Kilner jar
With their bright segments like
Thoughts suspended in amber.
You were made somewhere
Further away, in the origin songs of
Zhu Rong, at the confluence of
Two great rivers, and in the furnaces
Secretly burning in the mountains
And the minds of factory workers
And students, their wives and
Their daughters, who on a Wednesday
In that fateful Spring,
Woke up with thoughts of murder.
I saw their flag being burnt
Outside the city gates,
Where crowds sang with a jubilant rhythm.
Flags too, just as this ramekin,
Can have a purpose and imprint
Beyond the vision of cloth and colours,
A whole continent once bled into one
And lay dormant there for centuries,
Until the fires started.
I wondered for a while
On which factory companion
Had woven the components of
That bleak fabric, whose hands,
Whose homecoming, whose death
And whose mourning. The hands
Of a man shaped a ramekin once,
And the same hands held that flag
And my woes combusted
On a rainy weekend somewhere in England.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s