From the step
That strong pink rose
paints my mother’s face,
her smile as she saw it,
and the breeze recalls
her sigh at its glory.
But I’m still not a gardener,
I tidy the steps,
cut back a few brambles,
think, now and then,
about the state of the grass.
I watch wildflowers run,
positively encourage
mobs of foxes and cubs.
I hear dandelions roar
and bluebells ring.
RF 2024
I’ve not written much this year, been gainfully employed for a change, but here’s a little something I’ve been fiddling about with for a month or two. I read it to the folks at Newtyle Music Session last week and people seemed to like it so let’s spread it a little wider.
Pics are from mid June.
