A Golden Coloured Ring - Trudie Shannon

I wonder, as I sit adrift of you
On this somewhat rattling bus,
Empty, save for you and me.
Who gave you the ring
That sits , marooned upon your gnarled, arthritic finger?
It is not the golden band of wedlock
But sits locked between your swollen joints, still bright.
From where I sit, adrift of you
I make out the tired line of inscription or design
Unreadable to either of us, it is so faint.

In my mind, I believe 'she' gave it to you
Not wife, nor mother or sister
But she, who gave her love to you
When love was swift to blossom and as swift to fade.
When pocket money saved could purchase
A golden coloured ring, insignificant, without value
Save for the initials she scratched upon its surface.

As you stand to leave the moving bus
You grab the post and the gold coloured metal ring
Clinks agains its surface.
And as the the bus draws to a halt
You shuffle to the door
The ring weightless upon your gnarled arthritic finger.
You descend clueless to my pondering,
And I remain seated, wondering
What her name was.

Trudie Shannon