Gracefully they move
up a path of flowers,
past the towering oak,
the laughing, bobbing
faces of fritillarias.
To each a stick, tapping
the fine shingle, brass
point raising dust for
sensible brown shoes.
Ladies of service;
carers and helpers:
nothing’s a bother,
ladies a plate. Please.
Dainty sandwiches,
cut on the quarter,
asparagus rolls, too.
Count of them, today
and all tomorrows;
count of them
when things are tough;
count of them always.
A caring sun-spot hand.
On yours. Lovingly firm.
They know what to do.
As we do not know
So well said, my mother was one of such a gathering, and that ‘caring sun-spot hand’, as you say, someone to count on when the going get’s tough. It’s a whole piece of life you have put here, John, your compassion, and gentle eye that draws so finely around its subject.
Thanks, Peter. I am constantly surprised at their love, resilience, humour and toughness.
Lovely, John!