Scargill Scribbles

Two short scribbles from Scragill 

(I might edit them later but drop them here as part of my entering into this Holy Weekend)

In the garden

In the garden there is quiet beauty,

In the garden are sign and symbol, is beauty and pain

In this Easter Garden there is fire and flame,

there is life and there is death

In the garden there are denials and doubts,

breast beating questions and brotherly betrayals

In the garden is the deep anguish of the soul and the frustration of failing friendship

In the garden, signs of new life must fight for a place amongst the entangling weeds and barren bare soil

In the garden there is life, all life, but first there must be death.

In the garden the hellebore blooms

In the garden the hellebore blooms,

the soft dark greens of early spring,

the mottled shade of woodland paths and walled garden

In the garden the hellebore blooms

Quietly unnoticed the flowers droop delicate heads

Gently pointing to the ground below,

Acknowledging their place of birth

The blooms bow, their beauty muted, the head tilted to the soil

In the garden the hellebore blooms

Such beauty yet the drooping head bows as if weeping

Does it not feel worthy to point to the sky and sun?

Or does it know it belongs in the soft shadows and shade

In the garden the hellebore blooms

Knowingly or unknowingly it does what it needs to do

It points to the ground, to the earth, to the place of life and death.

In the garden the hellebore blooms.