The Gifts
It is true there are things that were unexpected, that this
was not the long, happy unfolding we thought it would be.
Some things will never be the same
and even our little cat lies under the apple tree.
Yet, I am filled with the Gladness of Living
and place my blessings out where we can see them,
a kind of counting, or accounting of the year.
On to the table, I place –
the savage fur of grief, the grace of tears,
a meal left in a box by my door,
mornings of atlantic dawn,
all birds’ flight,
small hands making cards, yellow her favourite colour,
a box of eggs tied with red ribbon,
a bunch of sweet-peas, lovingly grown,
the crows’ squawk outside,
your whisper: I am going to make it.
that you were right.
the rain on our skin, a day by the sea,
the sudden rise of laughter round the table,
that here we are together, a family,
changed, opened
that we are not undone
meals shared, a floor strewn with toys,
the quiet growing into being of another child,
a young owl’s cry in the night.
poem and photograph Rose Cook
Rose Cook 