June Blog 2021

Walking With My Grandmother

 

Coiling the skipping-ropes, fist-tight, 

ankle-deep in spires of violet-blue     

and pink,    and white. 

It’s weird, I say  - pink bluebells?  

And she points, Look! A bee-fly. 

It hovers in the pollen-dusted air  

whirring with scent and sound. 

It must be a fly, or, a bee?

A smile flickers in her eyes  - 

Things can be both, 

and dreams lie between. 

I skip home, lit by her aura - 

my grandmother,  a witch, a seer.

The ropes whip the path  

like wing-beats, wild words 

spitting on my  tongue  -

Moonflowers in the border

Starfish in the sky

Catkins purring in the rain

Gooseberries that  fly .