SINGING OF THE SCENTED GRASS
I sit beside the window, watching the morning sun
The garden below is empty, then a single bird
Hopping across the path, interrupts my view.
Memories rise joyfully.
What did we do as children?
Did we explore the bush?
Did you give me feathers of your wisdom
Or only the comfort of your body
In the scented, warm wilderness.
The above is an extract from Love from Mary (story and poems, 2004 - ISBN 0-9757606-7-X)