Spring Step

When I first learnt about Goddesses,
I was impressed – especially with Flora
who could seed flowers
as she stepped.

I liked how Boticelli saw her,
wearing a living gown,
holding her gaze.
I was never so sure about the festivals,

Hunting goats and hare,
the sacrifice of white female beasts,
The blood on the earth
of the clean white temple.

I think Flora would prefer
a religion of the green thumb,
where worship goes into the garden
wielding a trowel.

Where each small action
becomes a prayer.
Sometime I think I see her watching me
through the knots

in the trunk of the silver birch,
always reaching out to me,
in moments when sky fills my head –
urging me to bloom.

-Ali Jones

Where Feet Trod

Lead on.
Take my body
Wherever I must go.
Through pleasant,
Flowered-fields, and
Rocky trails also.
Why we walk there,
Those difficult paths,
I’ve never understood.
But I must admit,
The feet tread only,
Where the mind instructs.

-st

Path Of Seeds (Vacana)

O, Lady of the breath,
selfish and in control,

you decide the path of seeds
you carry and drop in my grove.

Landscape architect place
an acorn here, a Daisy here,
chestnut over there. No negotiation.

Blow my intricate clocks into half spheres,
my Sycamore immigrants spin
through your gusts.

Shoot moss into these worn mortared walls.
Broadcast grass between these carefully
laid pavements.

With you I have no choice
you deliver into me
whatever you hold.

I welcome your unexpected gifts.

-Paul Brookes

Feet & petals (a poem for Corona warriors)

Those eyes have missed a lot of smiles
and feet have run a lot of miles.
In hospitals they’re on their game,
they have a mighty beast to tame.
their noses bleed because of mask
and pumping hope is major task.

But they will have a warrior story.
Those feet will stride away in glory.

-Jay Gandhi

Frolic

I have never frolicked barefoot
through fields of flowers,
breathing in the sweet caress of petals,
delicate against my heels and toes.
Mine was a beach dwelling family,
addicted to waves,
being pulled under and vanishing.
As a child I ventured in slowly,
afraid of the ocean’s vast arms,
shells that seemed to have teeth,
the sting of jelly fish.
I preferred playing in the sand,
where I could bury my feet,
feel the grains solid and smooth
between my toes.
I think I would have liked the touch
of flowers, fragrant and gentle,
the safe mantle of trees
sheltering me from the sun.
Maybe there is still a field
waiting for me to frolic over its petals,
willing to welcome my old and tired feet.

-Susan Richardson

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell