The Garden in Winter
Itís Ďput to bedí as your mother used to say
and Iíve always thought of it like that,
cleaned, read to, tucked in and then
a few hours off. I look out of the window,
misted from marmalade-making
and picture it resting, safe, knowing
it will wake up still loved.
Already unseen bulbs push
at the surface, magnolia buds
coated in a light scattering of snow,
are ready to burst. In their vase
on the windowsill, tall, blowsy tulips
drop lemon petals into the sink.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Carole Bromley would
be pleased to hear them.