Generation to generation

There is an old book that rests upon my shelf,

Mottled with stains page to page,

Once my father’s,

Now mine.

There is a cigarette case that sits in my jewelry box,

Dulled from time’s effects,

Once my grandfather’s,

Now mine.

There is a pocket watch that sits in my father’s draw,

Ticking in a staccato rhythm,

Once my great grandfather’s,

Now mine.

One day there will be a ring that sits on my granddaughter’s finger,

Polished by a jeweler in Hatton Garden,

Once mine,

Now her’s.

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