Coins

Coins fell from the left pocket of the upturned, coffee brown pyjamas. They ran in all directions to secure their own spots on the icy floor. Maybe they like the cold which easily seeps into their atoms and makes them like itself. A pleasant change from the warmth of the coffee brown pyjama pocket. Each coin made a different sound, a unique voice, and startled me. Then ensued the childish game of hide and seek. They are naughty, these coins. They roll away to dark corners, under mahogany tables and book shelves, beds and cushioned chairs. They demand that you bend your proud head, kneel before them on the freezing ground and lend your eyes in keen service. Fingers touch the coldness, impatient to feel the warm coins before they are infected with icyness. Got them! One by one I draw them into my curled palm with shivering fingertips, searching to ensure I got all. And one by one, they are forced through the pierced cap of the plastic Sil jam container which banked my treasure 11 years ago. As I hear them slap their new neighbours, they wail; disappointed to have been found, arrested and imprisoned, yet again.