The Gift of Sight

A girl who was going blind,

who loved unicorns, poetry

and 'the Violet Saint' (Germaine)

and was a poet herself,

gave me a tiny kaleidoscope

of bright brass, like gold,

about the length of my forefinger,

in a black drawstring bag.

I lost her long ago

and rue my carelessness.

Her gift lies on my desk

for the times I take it up and play.

Through its minuscule aperture,

pointed at the nearest source of light,

I gaze at glittering shards

of turquoise, ruby, palest pink

and clear, shiny glass

moving and shifting as I twirl,

settling briefly as diamond shapes,

rhomboids, or intricate circles.

She gave it because I was going away.

She knew I would want magic

and a toy that was all my own.

(And indeed, I never share it.)

She gave me a gift to delight my sight

when she was more and more losing hers.

I see her face as I swirl the colours…. Herself,
she could always see what wasn't there.