Antique rivals are as bold as brass

There once was an owl and she sat on a shelf; A Victorian curio, full of herself. Her head was of brass, and her other parts, too, Except for her body. Well what a to-do! It was round. It was fat. A fat round coconut. I’d never encountered so rotund a gut! There once was a ball. It, too, sat on a shelf; A strange little sphere, didn’t fancy itself. Its heart was of bronze and its skin was of brass. Could it be a jack ball that rolled through the grass? Or maybe (it liked this idea best of all) It once fought the French as a posh cannonball. The great Antiques Roadshow came calling one day. The people queued up with a wondrous array All hopeful that their lot a fortune was worth. And in spite of the wait, we all giggled with mirth. For anticipation is probably best. And at last it was time to put our lots to the test. The expert was well-known all over the land. He fondled the owl, wrapped

in towel, in his hand. ‘This owl is an inkwell; Victorian,’ he cried. He lifted the head and inspected inside. ‘Could this be her egg?’ I inquired with a wink, And popped the ball down before he could blink. He laughed. But the owl was indignant, ‘What cheek! ‘To suggest we’re related!’ She waggled her beak, And ruffled her feathers and turned on the ball, And said: ‘No. We’ve nothing in common at all!’ ‘Besides,’ she remarked, ‘Why haven’t you hatched? ‘If you were my egg, you’d be quickly dispatched.’

The expert said, knowingly: ‘I’ve had a thought ‘About this here ball, this enigma you’ve brought. ‘Would you mind telling me where it was found?’ I said: ‘In our foundations, right under the ground. ‘We thought it was some sort of round heavy rock.’ ‘Oh, no,’ he replied. ‘It’s an old farm ballcock.’ ‘The shame of it! What an affront!’ the owl cried. ‘My good name is tarnished, and withered, my pride.’ But the ball was admired. An industrial gem, Which deserved, for its fortitude, a diadem. The owl had been only a novelty stand, While, down in the ground, it had nurtured the land. It rolled to the owl with a comforting chink And said: ‘I held back water. But you carried ink. ‘And people wrote words to record how I worked. ‘So you are important and shouldn’t feel irked.’ At this kind rejoinder, owl stood on one leg, And said: ‘I’d have been proud to have called you my egg.’ Ruth Twyman Lockyer, Bouldnor, Isle of Wight.