A Mother's Winter Evening

A blue-pink veil adorns the erubescent sky.

Phlegmatic clouds survey the life beneath.

A babe sleeps in her pram, protected, warm,

politely crinkling dried leaves under her wheels.

Her mother is a singing storyteller.

She tells her daughter of the tireless pilgrims;

those waves who take one final stretch before

willingly collapsing on the tranquil shore.

She sings of an ancient virtuoso whose  

dulcet strokes have aroused them to waltz back

and forth and back and forth and back for eons.  

She shows her how the sun surreptitiously bids

the east Adieu, reining in her purple tulle

train. Her pumpkin carriage is due farther west.

She tells of how the still illuminated

moon quietly asserts his presence, whispering

prayers of harmony, over the stolid

landscape and drawing in the blanket of

tides as he tucks the shoreline in for the night.

She walks her daughter along the humming bay;

a satin sofa for nocturnal creatures

to plan their flights. The stoic cliffs reserve

their views, discreetly exchanging glances.

She points to a saintly figure rowing

peacefully by, disturbing the waters

gently with silv’ry ripples. She tells of how

the streets call out for birds to come back home,

and chant their lullabies; their sacred songs.

She says the blackened trees, teach us to be still.

They hope we glean from their wisdom as we walk

beneath their canopy; they tell stories too:

Pay attention! When one’s soul recognises

one’s own winter season, one must pause to rest,

to stand by one’s post and to allow growth

in unseen places. They tell us that daughters

become mothers and often forget to breathe.

To notice the waves, acknowledge the birds,

feel small before the sky, clouds, cliffs, sun and moon.

And if they have regard for her, they’ll hear

Mother Nature sing them into fresh Spring.


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