This thing had no feathers, nor carried a tune,
just a low growing scrub I saw, by a dune;
no bird had ever sung in that desolate spot,
no cloud had marred that sky with its untidy blot;
yet it grew, stood its ground without any fuss
in a quiet version of hope, unselfconscious.
An immense vastness, a certain light offers
tiny, easily missed, wild-austere metaphors.
It is not always peacock-feathered and resplendent.It doesn’t sing always, it can remain silent.
And that rounds off my rather turbulent year on a note of quiet hope, I know it will start singing sometime. Thank you for being here and seeing this year through with me. A very happy new year MMXV to you and yours. Stay happy and blessed, wishing you lots of poetry and birdsongs of hope. See you next year.