Loch Ness Monster, stamped long

Across a once-round coin.

A penny,

Pressed into nothing,

Into something more than money.

What route to the heavy, glass-bound rollers?

Which grasping hands, dark pockets, upholstery crevices before

Arriving iron-smelling, earth-born, newly pressed again?

How many through my own fingers

From museums and galleries,

Raucous funfairs and till-chimed gift shops?

Lost, slipped behind dust-bound bookshelves

Or down churning gutters beneath rumbling, work-bound feet.

That fate perhaps,

But for now a clammy, toddler’s hand

An o-shaped mouth,

A treasure, gleaming gold.

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