Gorse

Today, everything reminds me;

the crimson on the breast of the robin,

the purple robing the rook 

the overflow of alabaster in the sky,

the spiny thorn on the gorse

and its faint sweet scent

for those who recognise it.

I would go back 

and wash your feet with my tears,

wipe them with my hair,

kiss them over and over.

Anoint you with perfume.

Now I am waiting for yellow blossoms

on the darkest of days.

Renita Boyle