days of spring rain —
a pattern in rainbow yarn
for an unborn child

Convent educated, I still find meaning in the stories, peace in the sacred places. The women move quietly in corners of various churches, not wanting to disturb me as I light my votive candle. Sometimes, one of them apologises for someone else’s chatter.

neonatal care —
feeding my sandwich
to a cygnet

Nobody seems to mind the stranger creeping in from time to time to take a cylinder of slim white wax out of the box, ignite the wick and place it in the dark iron ring among the other flickers.

baby’s op day —
a conker gleams
from its shell

So many flames that dance with prayerful energy, send positive healing waves, or just a flare of thankful joy.

first frost —
buying a tiny coat
striped with sky blue

Towards the year’s end I tiptoe in as usual. The women are busy with polish and winter foliage. Not yet in full view, waiting in the vestry, ready to be brought out at the appropriate moment, I catch a glimpse of the familiar nativity figurines. Again as I leave, one of the women gently smiles and whispers “I hope we didn’t disturb you”.

Christmas eve —
amid the coffee shop hubbub
my grandson gurgles

Diana Webb (UK)




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