Jul 20
A POSEY OF SHEEP
She a butterfly
in her little blue dress
chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.
Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.
Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.
One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.
They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.
I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.
"I have a garden
in my hand!"
She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can
joy and speed
fused together in her.
And when she returns
her petals have all gone.
She holds only stalks
in her hand
flowerless flowers.
"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"
And I let perspective
take a hand/
On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.
The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers
only existing
at a certain angle.
Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.
She holds a posey
of sheep.
I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.
On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.
And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"
I reposition her and
there they are.
"Hold still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep
pocket them
mind them for her.
Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs
clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.
All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind
possibly for ever
if not
longer.
*
We had made our way down to Derrible Bay on the island of Sark and I ventured briefly into the coldness that was the sea. I had left my watch on some rocks and this was returned to me by a very nice lady whose husband was swimming back and forth across the bay( I had only gone for ye gentle swim and splash-about )and when this picture of health emerged from mastering the sea he came towards us for yea he was the watch-returning lady's husband who it turned out was vastly interested in poetry and so we talked for two hours about the wonders of words. I told him the poem I had in my head to write which was as yet unwritten but now weeks later it has emerged from its underwatery world and stepped into its very own words.
She a butterfly
in her little blue dress
chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.
Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.
Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.
One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.
They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.
I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.
"I have a garden
in my hand!"
She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can
joy and speed
fused together in her.
And when she returns
her petals have all gone.
She holds only stalks
in her hand
flowerless flowers.
"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"
And I let perspective
take a hand/
On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.
The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers
only existing
at a certain angle.
Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.
She holds a posey
of sheep.
I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.
On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.
And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"
I reposition her and
there they are.
"Hold still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep
pocket them
mind them for her.
Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs
clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.
All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind
possibly for ever
if not
longer.
*
We had made our way down to Derrible Bay on the island of Sark and I ventured briefly into the coldness that was the sea. I had left my watch on some rocks and this was returned to me by a very nice lady whose husband was swimming back and forth across the bay( I had only gone for ye gentle swim and splash-about )and when this picture of health emerged from mastering the sea he came towards us for yea he was the watch-returning lady's husband who it turned out was vastly interested in poetry and so we talked for two hours about the wonders of words. I told him the poem I had in my head to write which was as yet unwritten but now weeks later it has emerged from its underwatery world and stepped into its very own words.
(Guildford)
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