She waits in winter’s garden

George_W_Picknell_The_old_orchard

She waits in winter’s garden,

Where the roses used to cling,

No blossom on the hawthorn,

No blackbird here to sing.

The gold upon her finger,

Is cold as bitter dawn,

But she’ll wait while dusk light lingers,

And the snow falls on the thorn.

She’ll wait for night to claim her,

When the stars rise in the sky,

She’ll wait though roses perish,

And the lonely blackbird die.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

20 thoughts on “She waits in winter’s garden”

  1. I was really enjoying it till that last line. My blackbird and my Robin of last winter haven’t been around this winter, and I miss them. I dont suppose they’re very long lived.

    1. I don’t know how long they live since they all look pretty similar. The only blackbird I’ve been able to keep tabs on is the one with the white tail feather. He was still around before Christmas which makes almost four years since I first noticed him and he was an adult already. Date: Mon, 22 Feb 2016 00:15:24 +0000 To: jane.dougherty@dbmail.com

  2. Beautiful, Jane, so beautiful. My grandfather told my grandmother (who was very ill with pancreatic cancer) that if she recovered it would add ten years to his life but if she died that time would be halved. I suppose he thought it would spur her on to live but she was too ill. He died exactly five years after her, in his mid seventies. Your poem reminded me of him.

    1. When you build your life around another person each depends on the other. Take away the prop and it’s hard to go. My mother was like that when my dad died. She filled her time up with all sorts of activities, never wanting to be left alone. But they never filled the gap.

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