Hyacinths in Enamel Bowl
There is more than a poem
in the gesture when you take my hand
cover it with your warmth
smile to my face.
We breathe in pink hyacinths
planted firmly by my daughter in the autumn
heady enough to seek out blindness
love winding with white roots.
Love too in the sparkle
in my son’s eyes, dancing brown,
as his long fingers reach for the biscuit tin.
How we entrust ourselves.
A woman holds her sleeping baby close,
as the sky lightens blue.
We being infinitely so much,
a poem can never be more.
Rose Cook 