When I turn 65 I hope I can ring up my children in the way my father did today with such a sense of joy and happiness at being alive and in the moment. This poem is a distillation of much my father has taught me over the years, and for which I thank him profoundly.
We are limitless, sense-lit beings,
Soft a-wing the universes,
Not flotsam, light thought things,
But soul-filled, mattering choices.
Our eyes lifted, keep, unsought, time
And hands clasped, hold dreams sublime:
So, we are infinite, momentous joy
Wherein all content and love alloy.
A terribly pretentious title perhaps for what this really is – the scrap of verse written for a St. Valentine’s gift. As you will gather it is to accompany some rather glam gardening items — a pair of Pink Wedge Welly boots and some pink Atlas Gloves. Oh, and I wanted not to mention the occasion, but bring the reader up short — she likes her Classics, and this will intrigue her as its the colloquial Roman name for Persephone!
For the planting of dreams,
Of schemes, of wishing things;
For the extraction of treasure
Pleasure and shapes once hidden forever;
For mud-larking, dog-walking
And the playing of parts;
For tramping, vamping
And sundry other Performing Arts;
For the Gardener Glamorous;
For the heart sublime;
For my Proserpine.
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Posted 14 February 2010
† Poet §
Per[sonal] § Po[etry]
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Tagged: Atlas Gloves, Eden, Gardening, Love, Persephone, Proserpina, Proserpine, St Valentine, Valentine, Valentine's Day, Wedge Wellies
