Artist Marjorie Wilson
On my antique oak table the French slipware
jug cradles such a temporary fragility.
I could not be disturbed by their profusion
in my garden for there could be nothing
malefic about buttercups; their joyous
yellows are never baleful or harmful,
thriving as they do even more so now
in our poor, drenched and depleted earth.
I store their magic along with their vision
in the compartment of memory that
I keep for those vile, vexed days and wonder why
we cannot be like the buttercups.
Could we not persist, rise up and open
our eyes wide enough to see between the
enclosing, dying trees? When times are shaky,
the light is low and all about us is rapidly
breaking in pieces, should we not spread ourselves
in battle, against the odds. Instead we
sleepwalk within a cosy, manufactured
reality; instead we make no sound.