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Poetry
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| Turning | |
| By Rachel | ||||||||||
| 13 July 2006 | ||||||||||
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Like many people, i guess, i have reassessed my relationship with my father in the light of his recent illness and death. my happiest memories of him are in his garden, which he - and I- loved. In the beginning I was Daddy’s girl. His garden was our kingdom, silence our language. I followed as he bowed and straightened strong over his spade. I swooped, a bird, on the glistening worms he turned from earthy blackness and carried them in my proud plastic bucket: Our harvest. They said whatever he planted grew. And so did I. I was no longer Daddy’s girl. Not to worms but to words and people, places I turned flew. Now again silence is our language and we wait away from birdsong in barren white emptiness. I dig into my mind, turning the fertile blackness until I find glistening memories planted then now grown to fruit to make me strong. May 2006
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