A lilac bush outside my window
told me as a child if spring
was on its greening way.
Then, one day of sparkling light
and life, cascades of purple buds
came floating down, a stream
of lavender-flecked bunches.
A watchful tiny bird sat singing
out its heart upon a branch above.
That bough and bush are long devoured
by time; developers… apartments
shutting out the simple life of song and sky
bright with incandescent stars,
but yet they grow forever in my mind
and I am young with Shirley Temple curls.
Alive, aglow, I run or jump along a path
of violet velvet rain. ‘Yes, Mummy,
I hear your voice. I am coming.’
The fragrance of the lilac lingers
over a group in gowns and mortar boards.
Pleasure, pride, purpose, power
are writ on every youthful face,
yet even as I watch in fading light,
so many purple petals droop and pass
and I am almost swept away with grief,
nigh inconsolable. So great the hopes,
so few are mortals’ precious days.
Autumn follows harvest; seeds shrivel.
Whose is the distant voice that now
I hear, gently, clearly calling out my name?
Faded amaranthine flowers remind
of former days, tell me that I hear
my father’s voice. He is waiting at the door,
wanting me be safe and home at last.
New Zealand born Mary Trim, who writes as Marye Trim, has a PhD in English Literature (Loughborough, UK, 1998) and studied journalism at the University of Queensland, Australia. She has authored five published books and hundreds of inspirational articles, stories and poems and was a newspaper columnist for nine years, while also working as missionary teacher in India and Thailand. She feels called to writing ministry and sees herself as akin to those “Out of Zebulon, they who handle the pen of the writer” (Judges 5:14).
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