My great grandmother gave the story to my mother.

Of the night there was a high wind, not quite a storm,

and the ship roiled to the north, not quite enough

to catch on Black Midden rocks and North Shields shore.

But enough to tip overboard a crate,

which did not quite get swept away by the tide.

The crate wedged on the rocks, not so violently

to smash the whole set of Rose Famille china,

but enough to lodge tea cups and saucers in cockly crevices.

Sand silted up the sugar bowl.

A lobster backed into the twelve-cup teapot,

laid claim to a lair fit for a queen.

The sight in dawnlight of such fragile roses,

strewn on the rocks, upset the routine

of fishwives collecting mussels and limpets

to bait the lines for night fishing.

But not as much as it upset Lady Trevelyan,

whose drawing room was bare of their design.

That evening, many a fishwife sipped tea

from translucent cups, admired the gold trim,

cocked a little finger at her Ladyship

and thanked the gift of a strong westerly.

My great grandmother got the story from her gran.

I’m passing on the roses to you.