The Hours

Cherry

By Silver Spun Sand

Sun, 03 Jan 2016
  • 1262 reads
2 comments
 
When days were long I took the role
of feckless youth, disdainful of dew drenched
daisy-dappled meadows – 
 
the air, drier than trenchant teasel-heads –
thistles coruscate the field as cobra’s fangs
through stubble...nothing is spared,
not even poppies which stare with eyes, 
black and beautiful as sin.  
 
Only weeds, I remind myself, knowing
she would have said,
 
‘A weed is merely a flower growing 
in a place of its own choosing’
 
and then she springs to life before me;
an aura of ambergris – slices an indifferent sea 
of violet vetch, feathers a tilted path, coveted
by a coven of shadows;
 
yet I know it is she, her feet, unlike
the cloven hoofed deer, leave no trace
of their swift passage through the pearly grass,
a hand, beckoning...beckoning
 
a child to her mother 
and I am stilled by the wonder. 
 
As days grow shorter she turns to leave – stoops
through pallid morning light, a kiss to blow,
a lone Christmas Rose leans with her;
but bends not – her shadow.
Certificate PG
Poem
Silver Spun Sand Poems
Spiritual

Comments

Submitted by EB on

Delicate description creating strong images. 

'A weed is merely a flower growing 
in a place of its own choosing’  That's what my grandmother used to say. There's a lesson in there. 
 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

EB - a lesson for us all, most certainly.  Pleased you enjoyed, and that it evoked pleasant memories of your grandmother.

Many thanks for taking the trouble to pop by, and I do hope you are not rain soaked this afternoon, as I am in this neck of the woods.

Tina