Soothing strokes of promised spring,
They trace the wrinkles of my soul.
There is an awakening within / without-
And I sense something amazing to happen-
Something unfurling as an opening bud.
‘Is this Spring,’ I ask the warming sun.
My smiling shadow nods yes.
There were little people living in the bottom of my garden. And, when I say little, I don’t mean a wee bit smaller than you or me, but microscopic.
It was quite by chance that I spotted them playing football against some rather outclassed ants. I hid behind my garden shed, held my breath, and observed. At first, I thought there just a few: I couldn’t have been more wrong. One by one the little people slid down the bank of the stream that backed into my garden, and onwards into my prizewinning flowerbeds. Some danced, some sung in high pitched voices, others just laid back and took in the sun.
I stayed there all day until it started to rain and the little folk all hurried away.
That night I was so happy. I didn’t have many real friends and felt sure that if the rain ever stopped, I could return to them and introduce myself. It would all be such fun, such wonderful fun. But it didn’t stop raining for three days.
When, at last, I trudged down the garden in my Wellington boots, I saw a world in tatters. The little folk lay all over the place. Some were drowned in tiny puddles that to them were like oceans, others hung from grasses and reads tangled and dead. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.
When I’d gathered as many as I could and buried them under an upturned flowerpot, I made my despondent way back to the house. And there, written in the tiniest lettering in the back door’s condensation were the words ‘Thank you.’ That too soon dripped away, but I hoped it was from my friends who never were. How I hoped.
Mauve are the moments between dusk and day
A magical blush to sweep light away
Tenderest soothings to usher in peace
Inhaled so slowly, my own sweet release
“Hello, I’m here to see my dad. Charles Westwood is his name. I think my mum should already be here.”
“I’m so sorry, Mister Westwood, but your father passed on just a short time ago. I’m truly sorry for your loss, we all are. Your mother’s sat over there at the window.”
“Hi, mum, I’m so sorry. Did you get chance to say goodbye?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t have wanted to. I’ll say hello later, instead.”