|I’ve made a Spring bouquet for you, my love,
of gorse. ‘Harsh!’ you’ll recoil. ‘For this harsh time?’
Yes, and not yes. It’s true, gorse is a glove
of blood for any hand, a paradigm
of touch-me-not, a keep-your-distance hedge.
Gorse ‘bears it out even to the edge of doom’,
endures, defends, fends off the slightest touch.
Why? For the sake of its exotic bloom:
a golden purse, sheathed in pistachio green,
that flings its riches to the cloudy skies
till Ireland swoons, drenched in a heady rain
of tropical perfume, a paradise.
I will be gorse while we are kept apart,
with you The Land of Spices in my heart.
|Bio & Link|
|I am a writer, living in Ballycastle, County Antrim. In the lockdown, the most abundant flowers around me are those of the beautiful but hard-to-handle gorse. I am very aware of separation in this period so I wrote this sonnet, hoping someone might find it expresses the difficulty of this period but also that nothing, ultimately, separates the lover from the beloved. http://angelagraham.org/|