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Thelma Laycock

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The Linen Cloth

I look at the linen cloth
embroidered for my mother;
the little brown fence,
flowers springing brave and bold,
daisy stitch, satin stitch,
a ten-year old’s fingers
wrestling with French knots,
a blood stain from a busy needle.

Now my hand follows the silky strands
to the garden seat;
I enter the scene, sitting alone without mother.
Did she too prick her finger
and will she sleep for a hundred years?
The garden is noisy with the scent of erupting Spring:
hawthorn and cherry mingling white and pink
confetti against bluebells.

Out of season I search for first fruit
but the children in the tree
have eaten the apples;
they hide their faces in the dark leaves,
their quick voices fly
here, there, in the bright foliage.

Yet the green fuse presses the earth
and April comes to birth:
there will be a rising.

Page(s) 31

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