Looking Back
All I remember
is how the blackbirds sang,
how the tulips flaunted their colours
undaunted; the peonies came early,
careless and extravagant in their scarlet dresses,
and the lilac was weighed down
with heavy-scented blossom.
In the secret wood, the brook kept flowing,
glinting between clay-muddied banks,
brimful with ten thousand flowers
of wild white garlic.
Slowly the oak tree put on
its summer coat and day after day
the sun kept shining.
My heart was with the jagged cry
of an unseen woodpecker.
At night, the stars
were all in their accustomed places,
and we watched, we listened
and we waited.
Roger Turner