Gillie Harries

Rose Garden Return Ashton Court

Mayday 2021

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A year on from the pocket of frost

that held our fragile lives

within its frantic fist of uncertainty

and bald fulsome fear,

I sit again.

The same bench damp

tear soaked, dew soaked

I cover its creeping chill with mackintosh

I’m scarcely warmed by a weak early sunlight.

Here is that same reverie of birdsong;

listen –blackbird, finch, robin, thrush

wood pigeon my brooding companions.

Nature our one constant, like stars

or, my Grandchildren’s eager open faces

hearts and slightly dented, hope.

The gates have been locked on this garden

black wrought iron curlicued grip

of cold closure, locked on life.

Now the roses almost-bloom

in tended tilth, hold their promise

of a season perfumed, heady, open.

The city hums it’s counterpoint

to all this breath held beauty.

The solitude a balm of sorts.

The dead still lie and quietly so.

We hear the voices of the children

rising for their future of hope.

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