Rise

‘Leaving behind nights of terror,

and fear, I rise, into a daybreak

that’s wonderfully clear, I rise...’

Maya Angelou

 

I remember when I brought you home;

such high hopes, I had of you.

 

I recall it was early spring, obviously,

and I told you, in no uncertain terms,

what I expected. ‘Thrive,’ I said.

‘Thrive.’

 

I got down on my knees – the soil,

warm, even through my jeans,

and I got to thinking you’d had

the very best start you could get,

all things being equal.

 

Still on my knees I promised

to nurture you...feed you,

give you a drink when thirsty,

although I had heard...too much

isn’t good.

 

Rain-water it would be. I’d collect it

in a rain-butt – cross my heart; the hose

coiled like a cobra, ready to strike

but, not to worry, I wouldn’t

give it leave.

 

But, for all this, you disappointed me;

not one bonny, black-eyed face

rewarded me, the whole summer through.

 

Instead, you chose to bloom

in a place of your own choosing;

not of mine...

 

Amidst the shingle, and the shale

where other kindred seeds blithely fell;

where nothing else could survive,

you sprung alive.

 

Bending with the wind, a barbed wire fence,

no deterrent – still you multiplied

in scarlet splendour saying, ‘No,’ indeed,

to oppression. ‘Yes’– to freedom.

 

And now, as those who fell in the flowery fields

of Flanders – in the dust of Registan Desert,

or wherever...

 

when the east wind blows cold,

I will tell you, ‘Sleep,’ until it’s your time

to rise again.