On this Mothering Sunday
don’t send me a bouquet of flowers
bought with a quick click of the mouse
cellophane wrapped, ribbons tied by hands
I’ll never know; whose blooms you’ll never see
walk with me instead, to Moniack Mhor, there
we’ll wait for morning sun to stir, feel it melt
the million sequins left by hoar frost,
listen to birds building nests in hedges,
watch distant sheep crop withered grass,
just a few precious hours, snatched from busy
lives,
sharing our
silence
witnessing the birth of a new Spring.
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