Signet Ring

I remember it, I think.
A full stop of a ring; chunky and incongruous
on those gnarled hand with knuckles that were
swollen by fatigue and farmwork and the occasional football mishap so many years ago

The ring a dull flash on the edge of my memory; faded sepia of aged hands and pruning shears clipping Fujis into a bucket.

We never talked about it, in memory, and how could we, really? Find words for
being poor in a time of war and a bad debtor's ring, so heavy and strange.

And it's only from my jeweller that I've heard
of manly pride, quite hero sized
and fillings cracked, collected and boiled down to make such a band that looks like bling but has shadows inside.