The petals of death were falling
in the cold east wind,
though the sun shone bright,
yet the song of the birds
was like a lament.

I shrank into this garden,
behind its walls,
dressed myself in dreams
to drive away the warships,
beating to the shore.

The waxing moon cast purple shadows
where pink roses hung,
and the swelling storm
turned to winter,
what yesterday was spring.

Yet this gown of sorrows
was not meant for me, nor any mother,
while sweet water fills the well,
and there are small hands,
reaching out to be held.

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.

17 thoughts on “Solace”

  1. It’s so interesting how the Oracle takes the same idea and turns it in different ways for us. So many mixed emotions coming at us from the wider world. And yet the small, the here and now, still sustains us. (K)

  2. Like others have said, much to ponder–lovely and tender–sort of bittersweet.
    We have similar messages and mixtures of images. I had mother originally (and also weirdly–tiny– but cut out the stanza, obviously because you already had said it. ๐Ÿ™‚

    1. Thinking about what Kerfe said, it seems to me that all our poems are abstract, a whirlpool of sensations, but they all lead the same way. Yes, bittersweet, because nothing is ever perfect.

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