Saturday, 11 April 2015



The wind shakes thoughts,
While plant-pots scatter.

The sharp air takes the breath - she gathers
Her cardigan to her chest; hair blown into knots -
She pushes it back off her face - seeds cling to her feet
The others she carries on her shoulders.

Then there are the ones with wings; swirling and twirling -
Through the harsh sun-winds. They stick to the fabric
Of her nature. Most ground themselves;
Some will grow.

These will be nurtured 
As they came from the earth,
As more seeds sow inside - the winds tear and tear.

She cares - even about the nettles
Which sting the senses into words;
They can be eaten - like your words.
Honey-smoothed to make a rhyme,
Stick in the memory of time…

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