Lugh’s Garden

Summer wind from the mountains,
Lifeless as a stone,
Dried the passion from my words,
And tossed them around
‘Til the edges were worn down.

I heard the water whisper,
While sneaking ‘round the rocks,
Telling stories to the moss,
All dressed in flower frocks.

It didn’t know I listened,
Nor noticed my surprise,
To hear it tell a tale of life,
To moss and dragonflies.

The honeybees were humming
Their songs without a tune,
And lilies bent their heads to watch
The fading of the moon.

Sunshine fed the flowers as
I found a grassy seat,
And settled down to listen while
The birds scratched at my feet.

Once a child with hair of gold,
And wonder in her eyes,
Played among the beetle bugs,
And laughed at flutter-bys.

Clouds drew pictures in the sky,
To teach the child to dream,
Starlight lace, draped o’er her night,
Held up by pale moonbeams.

Mockingbirds would wake her with
Their stolen morning songs,
And loons would sing her to her rest,
With lullabies forlorn.

The beauty of a flower
Speaks not, of where it grows,
For roses spring from piles of rock,
And jonquils from the snow.

Flowers sometimes prosper though
They grow in barren ground.
Sometimes children learn to love,
When love is not around.

So, a child with hair of gold
Found strength when she was grown,
To pass along her strength and love,
To children of her own

Somewhere in the babble of
The brook, I did behold,
My life was in that splashing song,
The tale the water told.

Trees and children grow the same,
Bent down or strong and straight,
With Mother’s love to help them bear
The burden of Life’s weight.

Many times my step was weak,
And many times I fell,
But always, was my Mother there,
To love, and keep me well.

Hair of gold turns into grey,
Though fires of love still burn,
The strength my Mother gave me,
Was soon mine, to return.

Many days turn into years,
And years, like rivers, flow,
Each life has its time to pass,
As each, its time to grow.

Flowers, and the trees have one,
But children, they have two,
One to give them strength in life,
And one to come home to.

My Mother gave me strength until,
It was her time to fall,
To sleep within the arms of,
The Mother of us all.

and it doesn’t even come close to being enough. r.w.dean