PICKINGS

Poetry from NHI publications

HOPE IS A SHARPENED AXE
Time when hope sharpens weather is ice-cold; buds on the lilac not yet visible, the yellow crocus extinguished by drifting snow and the frail blue scyllas are blanched as they unfold on the patio. Time when hope's blunted summer sunshine burns, old hedgehogs drowse beside the road's grass verge, the wasp has found the fruit and, even as his spark flares upward man, without volition, falters, turns towards the dark. Nothing makes sense. Far off, in the night sky, we measure huge black holes, the ultimate end of fire and frost and of all growing things; even man, himself, annihilated, not knowing why. And yet, he sings. We do not need the astronomer to dredge the knowledge that Eden's garden chills and weathers to a legend, a tale told for none to hear. Yet hope is a sharpened axe; its edge tempered by cold.
MABEL FERRETT

HOPE IS A SHARPENED AXE

Time when hope sharpens weather is ice-cold;
buds on the lilac not yet visible,
the yellow crocus extinguished by drifting snow
and the frail
blue scyllas are blanched as they unfold
on the patio.

Time when hope's blunted summer sunshine burns,
old hedgehogs drowse beside the road's grass verge,
the wasp has found the fruit and, even as his spark
flares upward
man, without volition, falters, turns
towards the dark.

Nothing makes sense. Far off, in the night sky,
we measure huge black holes, the ultimate end
of fire and frost and of all growing things;
even man,
himself, annihilated, not knowing why.
And yet, he sings.

We do not need the astronomer to dredge
the knowledge that Eden's garden chills
and weathers to a legend, a tale told
for none to hear.
Yet hope is a sharpened axe; its edge
tempered by cold.

MABEL FERRETT

from
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This page last updated: 14th November 2006.