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.


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s