A smooth tick reports from your blazer pocket
On the way to your house.
A tarmac drive leads to the door
And then, the long, lino pathway
Of your hallway floor;
Both so perfect for our purpose:
Marbles.

You have a new gem- just the one-
(no net bag-full, like a catch of common cod)
A 24 carat beauty; most cherished prize
And with, youthful gravitas, invite me
To “feast my eyes”
On this, the Koh-I-Noor
Of marbles.

Round and slick as an eye,
As perfect as only geometry can be,
Into the liquid blue, deep and far
I gaze, but cannot see a single inclusion,
Nor discern the tiniest scar
To blemish its diamond perfection.

Marbles:
Our youthful currency!
Instinctively, we all knew the rates:
The pounds and pence of childish leisure
And so did I: I could see
You were –herewith- rich beyond measure.
Like an heir, in receipt of your legacy,

That marble!
No wheedling, no quantity of treats,
Or cache of sweets, or even playground threats
Could make you play it. It would never
Touch the ground, nor be staked in juvenile bets,
No chance for me, or anyone, would there be ever
To win your transparent trophy.

“Why own it, if you won’t play it?”
We railed at you, foiled and frustrated.
And now, decades on, comes an answer –
Simple and belated:
At that tender age, you already knew
Not to gamble
What you could not bear to lose.