Signet Ring by Iris Anne Lewis
Clasped in the velour ridges
of the jewellery box, my father’s ring
above the clutter of beads and trinkets.
Its face is plain, gold with no engraving.
Only accidental scratches inscribe
the details of a hard-worked life.
Mostly I leave it in its box,
preferring silver lockets,
pendants strung on leather.
But when, wild-eyed, I need a father’s care,
I pull it from its resting place,
slip it on my thumb, feel
circumscribed by love.
First published in ARTEMISpoetry Issue 24