On Hollyhock Hill...

On my knees, planting bulbs,
where a brisk, September breeze
chides these frowning fields;
seeks out secret burrows
of evening's creatures –
trees and bushes wreathed
in mists of distant memories.

Then, a harsh, December gale
blew across this barren land;
sunbeams skidded on frozen
puddles between the furrows,
and a gathering fog choked
all sound, save for a red deer’s
sharp bark slicing the silence.

Beneath the soil, they bided
their time, until finally,
patience is rewarded,
as a balmy, April breeze
courts the jaunty daffodils
and bashful narcissus –
each one a-nodding
on this, my ‘hollyhock hill’.

As a woman, I have learned
all there is to know about waiting –
felt those first, faint, stirrings
of life; smelt the rain. Listened
to the last rays of sun as they dim.
And dreamt of the nights
when I guarded my children –
soft, and sleeping.