Behind my house a wood spans,
just over the fence a few feet away,
beyond the poet’s wife’s garden
of climbing roses and pots of joy,
past the fold-up chair that waits
beside a gate to the Great Mother.
Under sunlit tendrils of trailing
ivy that sparkle and spin with joy,
I set up my chair by Maple Elder
where everything spirals with life,
even dead things as my mother,
I realise, has jumped the gate too.
Surrounded by autumn’s jewels
I bless the bountiful Great Mother,
holding close each of Her seasons
in the wake of my mother’s passing,
from bud to leaf, bloom to flame,
blazing a slow trail to her rebirth.
Standing beneath this noble tree
of rich and vibrant falling leaves,
I feel my mother drawing near
in air that smells of damp moss,
startled as a black feather lands
on the writing chair she sits upon.
As quick as a fox this wild poet
climbs up onto her mother’s lap,
as the woods fill up with stories,
ones she thought she knew already
in the dark places inside herself,
yet there are always surprises here.
For in truth, a poet is no match
when a mother returns to love her,
one who instructs her daughter
to never return to the underworld,
rather scatter seeds of kindness
above to help pass down the love.
© Deborah Gregory 2021
Image Credit: “Enigma of Generations II”
by the phenomenal artist Michael Cheval