Family table –

So many hands joined in Grace ~

Kids playing beneath.

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Magnolia blooms –

My Mother’s garden renews ~

‘Sure that soil is spent’

Her mother famously said –

She was gloriously wrong.

A marble fireplace –

Anastomosing patterns ~

Long since understood.

(For Dave Johnston, a great teacher)

Victorian Pub –

Stories stored in its timber ~

Nice curve on that bar.

Snow melts to filthy –

Carrot, patio marooned ~

And yet, we made him.

Faded photograph –

A surprising reminder ~

The aging chassis.

Sound of chimney wind –

Gives February gusts a voice ~

Old memories.

Certainties in life:

Sun rising in the morning ~

Losing umbrellas.

The morning shower –

A slight pause for reflection ~

Warm rain on the ear.

Some hands know the soil.
They know what to do with it.
They’re not fine hands, clean hands, they’re rough and thick fingered and calloused but they bring life out of the black and keep a kind of order on the land.
They give firm handshakes.
And hold grandchildren carefully like they hold a china tea cup or a fragile flower.

(For Bob, who knew the land and its people well, RIP).

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