The Pond

The mist never lifted today. But there was still enough light for reflections, spotted on my walk. It reminded me of a poem I wrote over a decade ago, when we had a garden with a rock niche for a candle. For a very special little girl, now a beautiful young woman.


A little girl prayed in my garden this week
though I had not told her it's a holy place.
She prayed with water and earth and stone
and wanted fire to grace the sacred niche.

She clutched a pebble cream-pale as her hair,
knelt on the cool grass in the secret space.
Eyes closed, serene, lips moving, facing the rock
which was the repository of her prayer.

For ritual, she made her own; for love
she rested in the earth's embrace. For
blessing her fingers dipped in the pond.
The rock – her Ark. A woodpigeon, cooing, her dove.

Sue 2002