Saturday, February 28, 2009

A poem promised to Leutgeb before Lent began

The Seed Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring,
Sleepers to stir beneath June's magic kiss,
Though birds pass over unremembering,
And no bee seek here roses that were his.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams,
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams,
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells a million roses leap,
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

(Muriel Stuart 1899-1967)


leutgeb said...

How lovely. Thank you.

Bought another four packets yesterday!

These included two packets of sunflowers so that I can have a smiling border at the back of the allotment.

Jane said...

Let's have a sunflower height competition this season!

Bon Dimanche

leutgeb said...

But you live in France and it's warmer in the Summer, where as I live in the garden of England!

Metres or feet?

Bon dimanche.


Jane said...

Feet, and we'll take photos and not measure until the flowers fade on either side of the Channel.
The summers here are now much the same as in Britain. The climate has definitely changed over the 20 years we've had the house so it will not be an unfiar contest.

leutgeb said...

Phew. Let's hope my Russian Giants come up trumps!