Ranunculus
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.
Cait O’Connor
9 comments:
I love your poem and the painting above is lovely.
Cait, it was so good to taken in your words, and enjoy them, and appreciate them. And then...to read them again, and another time, and know that your poetry has given me a wonderful place to visit when vexation walks through my own postcode.
xo
Beautifully put. The voice is compelling.
..we make no sound...
Buttercups are everywhere around me, tall and proud and golden in the long grass. It is a good year for yellow.
How wonderful, thank you for sharing. And, I love your new profile picture with those shawls how the light comes through them. Stunning! Minerva ~
Simply splendid, Cait! So beautifully written. And, I enjoyed so much. xx's from Texas....
you are a beautiful poet !!
Those final lines spoke so clearly to me...
I really like these lines:
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.
YES, we should indeed....
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