Stories, realities different to my own, run through my thoughts like the gold thread woven into an embroidered coat. Wind gusts and rumbles in the chimney and beyond the window streaked with rain, the brown stalks of last season’s hawkweed tremble. The field is like a crowd agitating tiny flags, silent and damp, but not cowed. Beneath the wind’s heavy hand the stalks of cat’s ear and hawkweed bend and spring back again. In the earth, beneath the rotting leaves, the new shoots lie curled, waiting for the spring.
Stories unfurl, hardy as hawkweed, waiting to be heard.
There were yellow blooms
in the bleak, rain-swept meadow—
the earth remembers.