Apr 21, 2010 22:21
I thought this one matched nicely with the one about the box of pastels. This week's themes seem to be quietly abandoned objects and the sense of touch.
THE SEED SHOP
Muriel Stuart
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.
Dead tha shall quicken at the trump of Spring,
Sleepers to stir beneath June's splendid kiss,
Though birds pass over, unremembering,
And no bee seek here roses that were his.
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 lilies shall make Summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple houses 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.
british poets,
muriel stuart,
scottish poets