My Mother Lies Here Copyright © Owen Robin Davies 2011

My mother lies here, high up in the downs.
Just on the down side of up she rests,
in woods, amongst ransome and wild chives.
Beyond the trees, fields of Hampshire sheep
slope down to the sea, green and deep.
Next to ransome, wild thyme proclaims
as a nosegay; and golden celandines,
there where she lies, calling in spring
for the wild primrose to bloom and join in.

Later, tender, wild strawberries ripen
and hallow her life, just here in the trees;
sharing her patience, proclaiming the peace
of this place with warm, soft, wooded hills
tumbling down to the sea with it's naval wills.
She knew all these ways, born, schooled
on the parade ground of the setting sun.
She set out to ensure her ways were our hope,
my sister and I, wrapped secure in her cope.

She showed us the way, one which was good,
we're alone now to fend with our instincts.
If you were to sweep the leaves just here
with your shoe, you might feel what I feel.
The sounds of the trees ring in a peal;
not of bells, but a soft spring shower
with sunlight to flicker and dance on her bower.
No noise save for the splashing of rain
on a welkin fit for a chatelaine.

No one knows she rests there amidst things;
special treasures for those who can see.
Try harder to witness that which we brook,
my sister and I, now lords of the dance.
Look now, observe us as if in a trance,
driven by our mother, whose life force still rings.
The trickery of shadows brings forth a smile
when life's irony pokes us until
we see she is with us at odd times still.