Buttons

A poem inspired by finding a tin of buttons.

This happened to me last Sunday.

I stumbled upon this tin of buttons in the picture and decided to pay £4 for them and take them home because I felt drawn to their stories and secrets.

Also, I was suddenly nostalgic for my own grandma’s tin.

Didn’t everyone’s grandmother have a buttons tin or sewing box that would instantly transport you to your childhood if you saw it now?

My gran had a small collection of buttons in my grandad’s old tobacco tin.

I see it in my mind - bashed and dinted with its mustard colour and red writing - and can smell his pipe….him. Rich, fruity, spicy, earthy….

Anyway, this is another lady’s story.

I like the way that buttons being fastenings are mirroring of family ties. Also, the appearance of the individual pieces echo changing times and fashions of the physical world.

There they were - round faced silent witnesses of both personal and social change.

And yes, some were broken.

Buttons

.

My magpie spotted buttons

At a carboot sale one morning 

“They used to be my grandma’s”

Her words hit me without warning 

.

They jostled in a biscuit tin

A long forgotten Christmas 

Faded promises of chocolate 

Party rings and pale pink wafers

.

Like pebbles, they had smashed around

Oceans of age and youth

The coves of family secrets 

Beaches where white lies met truth

.

I took them home and washed them

Scrubbed their ornate faces clean

Then I set each one upon my palm

And asked them where they’d been

.

Wheel-like buttons whispered

Of stolen kisses in posh frocks

Dimming lantern light and dancehalls 

Ticking Cinderella clocks

.

Then I saw attentive fingers 

Mend his uniform with pride

Love bloomed as a field of poppies

After the war she was his bride

.

The mother told her story next

Darning socks and adding patches 

Her hands scouring the sewing stuff

For closest colour matches 

.

I sensed the trawl of tiny hands 

Combing through for shiny treasure

A simple song of shingle

The clatter, bringing pleasure

.

Her age brought teeny fastenings

As she knitted through the years

Dolly cardigans and dresses 

For each toddler’s “Tiny Tears”

.

Sometimes the tin was opened 

By a curious older kid

Disappointed to find buttons 

When there were biscuits on the lid

.

One day, she took a small black button 

And held it gently to the sun

Hoping to see gold light leap through it

As her keen eyes had always done

.

She tried to sew that opaque button

But it was fast becoming night

Couldn’t line it up to stitch it

Her trembling hands gave up the fight 

.

And the days live on as buttons

Prised from the outfits of the dead 

Anyone can weave their story

When someone cares to give them thread

.