The lost ring

Without a beginning or an end
it is a token, I suppose,
of infinity, if not eternity.
Pure gold,
yet merely metal,
and - the other day -
so very nearly scrap.

Since I came of age,
always to hand,
there on my little finger
holding, reassuring
and confirming
a heritage of sorts.

A signet ring, a crest,
well worn, and age-worn now.
Marked, but hallmarked,
finely engraved as well
with an owl - for wisdom –
and the word Petræa
signifying rock.
Or strength perhaps.

A ring of gold,
no longer used for sealing,
or even making an impression –
a replica of my father’s ring
and – for all I know –
many grandfathers’ before him.

The crest a pledge,
or plea, for strength
and wisdom.

And so a treasured thing, this ring.
And then,
in an absent moment,
allowed to slip off silently
and go to ground.

The panic when I found
it gone, this ounce or two
of precious metal.
And then, with steps retraced,
the elation and relief
when once again I found
my band of gold.
Lying with almost worthless metal
in the recycling bin,
waiting for collection
and – like us, if we admit it -
ultimate oblivion.

The loss, and then the finding,
signifying nothing,
or maybe everything.
And just a glint of meaning.