The alarming sound of bells pursues us
to the edge of our slice of peace.
so we hurry upstairs – retreating
to a place of monks and poppies,
framed for offering their opium heads
boldly in this high heaven.

No gardener, tending and tidying
the earth for human delectation,
rather would I let roses ramble
and weary travellers rest
in shady gnarl of broken bow.

So it is pleasant here,
in your rescued window seat,
away from those insistent bells
calling us to be pious, reverent,
Here I am picked but not potted,
some kind of old seed, regenerating.


Published by

Julia Dean-Richards

Julia is a writer and performer living in the Shropshire hills. Her writing is a product and expression of the love she has found whilst journeying through the most difficult times of her life.

please feel free to comment on these poems - all feedback appreciated. :)

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s