As the winter nights darken,

I gaze out at my garden.

The plants tended with care

Now wear frost in their hair.

They lie quietly dormant,

Awaiting the moment

When their crowns of frost

To the sun’s rays are lost.

When the warmth of the thaw

Creeps into their core

And the crowns that they wear

Are of coloured jewels so rare.



The cliff path twists

and the drizzle persists.

Our hair in limp wisps

as the foliage drips.

Then the mist starts to lift.

We see drifts of pink thrift.

Above the path a swallow flits,

skimming the delicate tamarisk.

Our limbs might be stiff,

but up here on the cliff,

with thrift and mist and tamarisk,

is our piece of Cornish bliss.



Maisie Bishop

Maisie Bishop

Maisie writes short stories, poems and articles about cats and travel.