This is one of my favourites.
Morning Ritual
Spring’s green rumbling wakes me.
Slipperless dawn icing my feet with dew,
the crisp sky tumbles above,
a basket of dried blue cornflowers out of season.
On a slate stepping stone
butterfly cracks flit over damp-kissed
violet and gold snowflakes.
My sage fingertips remove
coiled damp leaves from the fence line,
autumn’s discards.
A tight fist pushes up
through drooping snowdrops
and rhubarb umbrellas,
ruffled plum wine splashed
among barbed wire and cobbles.
An echo of the past, my mother’s peonies,
blousy pink explosions,
nibbled open by fat black ants.
Jaws working, they peeled
the jewelled buds until they burst.
Coffee cup in hand,
the morning crossword staining her wrist,
her day began with a slow stroll to deadhead.
She checked tea roses
and floribundas for black spot,
aged dogs at her heels,
panting in the rising humidity.
Damp oak branches whispered of India ink.
Koi swimming beneath cloud lily pads,
the music of seeds
spilled from dark compost.
A green hummingbird blurred borders
a breath, a heartbeat in flight.
My first steps, blue roses,
transplanted forest violets,
gold-bearded,
throats veined indigo and white
to struggle in mortar filled soil.
In my own garden, two cats follow me,
noses buried in petals.
With her blessings, I dip my fingers
into good clean mud.
Any ideas who the very talented author is?
