Dragons

The first one is still the best one,
a small scaled green dragon
hatching from a speckled egg,
small enough to close in a fist.
The others, metal and pottery,
covered a shelf until they were
packed away into a box
beneath the bed. Affection
for them dwindled and they
nearly went to the charity shop.
Instead they were given to my kids
to litter up their shelves: except for two.
The little original, still on my dressing
table next to my perfume and picture
of my favourite cat; now dead.
The other, a hand-made sleeping
dragon I lost like the friendship
of the person who made it: cold
and cruel as dragon claws.