Wooden Bag

A knapsack made of oak
Purchased for thirty francs
From a market in Geneva
In 1968
Carved from a single piece of wood
A level of workmanship one rarely comes across today

Many rainstorms have not dulled the lustre of the wood
The lid of the satchel is made up of slats
Affixed to a piece of sky-coloured felt

It closes with a click
And fastens with a clasp
The shape of a bumblebee
Blown in glass
The shoulder strap is equally quaint
A daisy chain of leather
Fraying at the zenith of its arc

At the centre of each flower there lies a bead of wood, oh
I can't throw this bag away, oh
I can't throw this bag away

A bar of highland toffee
Its wrapper still intact
With an expiration date
Of J.A.N. 86
A strip of contraceptive pills
A box of Anadin Extra
Half a dozen of those tiny Ladbrokes pens

Shells collected from the shore of Newton-by-the-Sea
The smell of the ocean
In a used handkerchief
A lattice of hairpins combing the beach

A cloth-bound diary
Filled with cartography
Countries that you saw
Whilst you were asleep
Receding into leaf
I can see a bridge of moonlight flowing, oh
Through the page

How I miss you, I can feel it in my molecules, oh
I can't throw this bag away, oh
I can't throw this bag away