In this dark time of the year,

When buds still sleep on rain-black boughs,

And famine stalks the winter-weary woods,

Stealthy as fox tread, quick as the kestrel,

I do not bend my head in sorrow or in shame,

Or shake green boughs to ward off last year’s ghosts.

I watch the blackbird settled on her nest,

Listen to the cloud-grey turtle dove,

Murm’ring softly to his lifetime’s love,

And make a promise to this burgeoning and blossoming,

To live what I have left of sun and showers,

With as much unselfish passion,

As these feather soft, fur trembling, gentle ones,

My precious siblings.

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.

10 thoughts on “Ostara”

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