Saturday, 2 August 2008


he smelled the honeysuckle,
drank in the heavy odour
of the meadowsweet,
held the wild rose,
still wet with dew,
in his fingers,
ran his hand along the bough
of apple blossom,
letting its petals
caress his mouth.
He said their names
letting the words
roll off his tongue.

he listened to the danger call
of the curlew,
strained to hear the mew
of the high buzzard.
The rapid whistle
of the kingfisher
stopped him in wonder.
The call of the cuckoo
he waited for in Spring.

Then he could see.
He filled his room with
a thousand shining
cramming them into jars
on the kitchen table.

And he stared,
at the simple beauty
of the brown hedge sparrow
as it worked its way quietly
along the hedge.


Dominic Rivron said...

I really like this. The dandelion stanza comes as a real surprise!
Am I right in thinking that dandelion is a corruption of the French, "dent du lion" (lion's teeth)?

The Weaver of Grass said...

It is one interpretation. It is a bit like the "marmalade" one, I think (Marie malade) nobody is really sure - but it is a nice idea.

The Solitary Walker said...

Liked it too.

The Weaver of Grass said...

The original idea for this poem came from an actual event sixty or seventy years ago when an old lady in the village of Cranwell regained her sight and fell immediately in love with dandelions. I changed the gender to "he"as it seems to scan better and also cuts out a degree of sentimentality for a reason I cannot fathom (try substituting "she" and you'll see what I mean!)