Our need is surely now for gentle news.
Lives, stilled by necessity, call out for calm,
a kind of deep attention monks have known.
My kneeling stool has become a friend.

The garden and my small abode are alight
with both loss and pleasure. Old songs spring
easily to an open heart. The call, to replenish
gratitude, knocks each day on my door.

Odd that I have perfected now, the recipe
for scones. Buttermilk with ginger, apricots,
free range eggs that turn them golden.
Tops brushed with milk, a dust of sugar.

Old friend, it is you I wish I could
bring them to — in a basket covered
with a cotton cloth — and walk again,
arm in arm, round that mountain lake.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author's permission.