Counting Snowdrops

Cicely Mary Barker

Counting Snowdrops

(For Elizabeth)

On St Brigid’s Day (the saint of poets),

 in the middle of  a blackthorn winter

on a Sun Day, unannounced, unexpected,

uninvited and long given up on,

a trace of sun and golden light crept in

which lifted the moods of both mice and men

but sadly did not linger very long.

By nightfall their hopes were taken hostage

by the chill of an icy Imbolc Moon.

On Candlemas, it is still grey and cold

(which must foretell of warmer days to come?)

I call a friend across the mountains who,

she says, to  dispel her blues, counts snowdrops,

(a stroke of brilliance on her part, truly

 in keeping with my heart). I covet her

 idea, vow to steal it away and keep

a tally of such treasures in my soul.

On St Valentine’s Day (the saint of love)

I creep outside to count my snowdrops and

find  undiscovered blooms hiding  beneath

the rowan and the ash, jewels in newly

minted groups, shining like precious pearls.

I choose to pick only solitary

specimens, just the the ones who stand alone,

virginal, fragile, as yet unnoticed,

they call out  to me and seem to yearn  to

be with their kind, up close amongst the rest.

Cait O’Connor