in our hands

Needless to say, I picked up a couple of new (2nd-hand) volumes of poetry, whilst we were over in Glasgow at the weekend ;-)

Here's the first, a 2015 collection (edited by Deborah Alma) that I hadn't seen before - and below is a favourite poem, taken from within, written by Muriel Stuart:


The Seed Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry —
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the call of Spring,
Sleepers to stir beneath June’s magic kiss,
Though birds pass over, unremembering,
And no bee seek here roses that were his.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams,
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams,
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

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Muriel Stuart (1885 - 1967)

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