They’re gone, those crocus fields,
pastures where we walked in search of spring.
Even the air there mauve, an eye
with us the pupil, everything in focus.
Bleached as shells these autumn skeletons—
fleabane daisies, thistles, fractured thorns
that grip our pant legs, score our skin—
sharp reminders of the paucity of time.
Downward path, our footprints brim with shadows,
teeth of ice along the river edge to catch the reeds
and keep us out, their cold estate enough to send us back
where mossy rocks hold borrowed sun.
When evening spills against us, soft as crocus fur
against my cheek, the tang of sage, clean earth,
we skim the hill’s stern countenance. And there
among the grasses is a velvet nest of them. Only one is open.
Singing. Not about the spring, it calls
beyond the notes of hope, or clarity, or resurrection.
Instead what finds us here in genesis
Photo: Beverley Brenna