Garden

Two blackbirds flit in and out
of dead, fallen branches,
in a garden filled with
brand new colour
and a Belfast sink.
Ferns, green and hardy,
trail down from the roof
and the black iron window bars
have started to peel;
beautiful rust outside these
dove grey walls.

The daffodils have begun
to wilt, 
yellow giving way to blue.
Harebells find pathways 
through the woods
and I see apple blossoms
in a new light.
We talk of being children
in an era long gone
and I can smell sea-salt
on my open hands.

and yet there is such stillness; buried deep

I grew up climbing trees, eating beans on toast, watching birds, swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, drawing weeds in lead pencil and making wreaths from wild flowers. I still do all of these things. 

Our beautiful world may sometimes be hard and a wee bit sad... *and yet there is such stillness; buried deep*

 Welcome to *milkweed*