| A knapsack made of oak
|
| Purchased for thirty francs
|
| From a market in Geneva
|
| In 1968
|
| Carved from a single piece of wood
|
| A level of workmanship one rarely comes across today
|
| Many rainstorms have not dulled the lustre of the wood
|
| The lid of the satchel is made up of slats
|
| Affixed to a piece of sky-coloured felt
|
| It closes with a click
|
| And fastens with a clasp
|
| The shape of a bumblebee
|
| Blown in glass
|
| The shoulder strap is equally quaint
|
| A daisy chain of leather
|
| Fraying at the zenith of its arc
|
| At the centre of each flower there lies a bead of wood, oh
|
| I can’t throw this bag away, oh
|
| I can’t throw this bag away
|
| A bar of highland toffee
|
| Its wrapper still intact
|
| With an expiration date
|
| Of J.A.N. |
| 86
|
| A strip of contraceptive pills
|
| A box of Anadin Extra
|
| Half a dozen of those tiny Ladbrokes pens
|
| Shells collected from the shore of Newton-by-the-Sea
|
| The smell of the ocean
|
| In a used handkerchief
|
| A lattice of hairpins combing the beach
|
| A cloth-bound diary
|
| Filled with cartography
|
| Countries that you saw
|
| Whilst you were asleep
|
| Receding into leaf
|
| I can see a bridge of moonlight flowing, oh
|
| Through the page
|
| How I miss you, I can feel it in my molecules, oh
|
| I can’t throw this bag away, oh
|
| I can’t throw this bag away |