The Hawthorn Hedge

Flower beds, climbing beans, cabbages, crisp and clean, the narrow ditch where nettles sting. Snail tracks glisten like silver threads on the pile of stones at the garden end. On hands and knees I hold my breath, gaze through the gap in the hawthorn hedge, to the meadow, where white horses tread. And everywhere I look, is … More The Hawthorn Hedge

Breath

Slowly, silently, went the moon, went the darkest Easter I have ever known. This morning, I give thanks, for your breath, drawn, for  your heart, beating. Slowly, gently, with the dawn.