Ellie was poorly This morning. Her little face Hot to the touch, Her eyes barely able To open, Yet, still, when we left She turned To us, And from deep within Her small year and a bit body, Conjured up a smile, Her tiny hand Waving goodbye As we walked away, Worry darkening Our footsteps, Love overwhelming us, So that we couldn’t leave, Had to go back and wait Until she closed her eyes And fell asleep.
I live in an area that for hundreds of years was forest. Even as a child, I remember woods and meadows unspoilt by factories and houses. I think this little speedwell flower comes from the once lovely woods we used to have, at least, the Speedwell that I’m writing about. I remember hearing the name ‘Bird’s eyes’, when I was small and the thought of all the little birds flying about without eyes made me cry! Our garden would have been part of a forest floor a long time ago.
Bird’s eyes In the garden, Tiny blue flowers Weaving over the grass On stalks so thin, They threaten To break At a harsh look.
Don’t be fooled. This delicate Dot of blue Will still be there When everything else Has gone.
As a writer, my whole life seems to have been dominated by the empty white page, empty being the operative word! Yet the one thing I love is an empty white page, all ready and waiting for me to fill it. I have piles of notebooks which I choose for their paper. Silky paper, so white, the pages border on a faint lemon colour and when I write on them, the pen simply slides across the page. The only snag is, I have five thick and beautiful notebooks I cherish but which are now so full, I am reduced to finding empty half pages or bits of corners if I want to write in them. I bought these from Tesco years ago and have never found them again since. Well, here’s wishing you the joy of pages of words, or scraps of paper covered in words or backs of envelopes full of hastily scrawled lines or anything else that will allow you to write on it!
I am sick of this page, Staring at me in all its whiteness, Never once blinking, Never once having the courtesy To fill itself with lines of writing.