Monthly Archives: November 2008


As the leaves are changing colour to golds and browns, and our world is composing itself to sleep, this poem fills my mind with  images of promised life.

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

Forlorn as ashes,  shrivelled, scentless,  dry –

Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;

A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust

That will drink deeply of a century’s streams,

These liliies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep.                                     Muriel Stuart.

Eleutheros has a very interesting musing about dormant seeds from centuries ago being planted and being viable. I recommend it.


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