Yesterday, 11th November, was Armistice Day in this country and I put up a poem for that day. The flower in this poem I saw en route to Scotland on a day thick with frost and the first flakes of snow falling. As we waited at the side of the road to move on, I saw it, deep in a patch of woodland where every flower and leaf was fighting to survive.
ON THE EDGE OF WINTER
On the edge of winter
Where the pale-lit leaves
All frail and flimsy
Lift the trees above the sullen darkness,
Leaving bare their winter branches,
There, where burdock and spiteful bramble,
No longer green but cold and seamed
With bitter leaves
Warm their feet in the dark earth,
In the roots that wind and curl into the darkness
Hard by the yellow matted grasses,
The bleached and bone-white tussocks
Dying, dying, all sad and weary.
There, on the edge of winter,
Lying in the frosty sparkle,
I saw the bold, bright petal of a winter flower
Defeat the darkness
With life and hope and love and passion.