“Titanic cup found in kitchen could sell for £2000”

In memory of a golden friend

This cup did not shipwreck, did not fall
through salt layers of ocean, dark through dark;
it was not grasped, not washed out by chill tides.
This cup stayed gold-rimmed still, safe
on a shelf, filled of an afternoon with warmth,
held only ever what it could contain unspilt.
This cup was not 'lucky to survive'. No cup
is made to hold the sea. And porcelain
was never meant to fall so long and far
into the cold. No, every cup should have survived,
or smashed at last in a familiar way,
gentle and homely. Like when a longed-for voice
calls Here I am and someone tired turns,
flinging their arms out wide, dropping their empty cup.