After the long sorrows and the upset, when
the rains have stopped and the storms eased, you will
walk out again, the roads still lustrous wet,
you will breast the rise, and pause; listen a while
to the burble of excess rainwater along hidden drains
and the welcoming scold of the wren and chaffinch;
half-hidden at the base of the blackthorn hedge,
a fox-run leads towards the secrecy of a dark wood
and you find, by a solitary ash, where the new grasses
are disentangling from the old on the cramped
ditch-top, an early purple orchid, rising lone
towards pyramidal grandeur and enigma. Stand
for a while in mid-morning silence, to savour
the presence of the world as you knew it, maternal
though strict, embracing and aloof, till you feel part
of the insistent and discreet stirring of new life,
your part being to be yourself, attentive, open
and quietly expectant, aware of the simple desire
to be one with the presence, the stillness, to hold
in acceptance the long sorrows and the loss.