Libra

He offered a feather for the weight of our two hearts,
Placed it into the copper bowl, said, ‘here is our love,
What it was worth to me’. It did not tip the Shylock scale,
Nor straighten the yoke, the imbalance stubbornly prevailed.
So prompted, placed into the empty basin all that I could find:
Two crumpled calendar pages for January and February,
A dry noodle, an uncooked piece of fusilli, an old broken
Nikon camera, a mud-caked shoe, a peacock feather, two
Mugs of mulled wine, a slingshot of soap suds, a much
Needed Karma sutra. Found a monkey for the Chinese
New Year, a clay carafe of Saki, an oak tree of kingly 
Proportions, a cup of bitter coffee. Added to it the big dog
With the empty stomach, a striped jumper of lilac and black,
A fake leather coat, a torn denim pocket full of lint, dust
And ladles of guilt. Fished out a copy of Shogun, my old
Trump-O-Moto, four years of written wisdom, the photo
Of Port Meadow, some pieces of obsidian, a statue ostrich
With its buried head hidden, a ghost crab, empty crustacean
That once marched across sand the colour of skin. Thus finished
With a Samurai sword, the poison of a scorpion’s black, jointed
Tale, a stuck record of quick goodbyes, missives filled
With strategic lies, a mask to cover the eyes, an invitation
To a dinner party with no guests, the shrivel of a once
Anxiety ridden balloon, the slow deletion of a hard-drive,
A chess piece queen long mated. Finally the balance tipped,
A single feather that sunk, defeated, equated with enough
Of our past, such junk being the real weight of our love.