Years later, I saw in the Ashmolean
precious plates, fine porcelain
of the best handiwork, that stood
down the aisle on the first floor
in their blue cases. Some of them by then
I already knew by heart, having gone
to school in the refurbished building
where we painted, one year, a semblance
of a low Victorian house that sat out of reach
as our bus-route narrowed to a bridge.
Others I had never seen, but were the twins
of a bright, winding city where I spent
hours salvaged from school and home
with my own widening strides marking time,
Behind Grandmother’s house there was once
a factory where, in her motley tongue,
she told me they used to blow blue glass
for windowpanes, wine bottles, flasks.
I pressed my hands to the cabinet
full of china, and dreamt that I could touch
the tea services, with their beautiful necks
too thin, too tall for proper use.