Poetry

Elizabeth Jasper Writer

Poetry

Elizabeth Jasper has written poetry for most of her adult life.

These three pieces reflect the balance between experience, strength and frailty as we grow older

Counsellors

Here they come,

Those leeches in disguise.

Devils tongues,

That lick and gently prise apart

Experience

Not settled yet within the soul;

Extracting from it

Bleeding chunks of life

That really should be left alone

To form its essence.

They pry, and poke,

And suck into themselves

That which,

If left alone to grow

One day might make

A human of some substance.

Reflections

How softly did that girl slip swiftly by
Without me really seeing; though my eye
Lay close upon her each and every day
With varying degrees of affection.
And, as nature had her way
She made the passing years my affliction.
I saw, each time, her smile would slide away
When catching unawares her reffection
I hope she never saw the sadness show
Upon my face, and that she did not know
How hard it was for me to keep the tears
From starting in my heart, each time
I gazed more closely on her lovely face,
Knowing that each soft and gentle line
Refcected more than just the passing years
And that those lines should be less hers than mine.

The Gardener

The Gardener kneels before the ruined plant;

Breathes softly on her ragged crown.

‘I am the Son of the Soil,’ He says,

‘Please, listen to me now’.

She (dimly) hears the sigh;

And feels the breath

That stirs her ageing leaves.

One gently tug,

The oldest ones are gone.

She breathes with greater ease.

Another, sharper pull.

Cool, spring air surrounds her.

(The Sun has not quite reached this far).

Her inner leaves unfurl to show

The tightest bud of all.

He breathes again, more deeply.

Moisture glistens,

Trickles down,

Bathes parched roots.

The softest touch of warmth,

A gentle easing of the bud

Towards the Sun.

Freedom! From an age

Of wanting and neglect.

A quickening; a raging of renewal.

Another, tender touch,

But firm; to give support

To such intense profusion.

The Sun strikes.

She opens; swells, bears fruit

And dies, content.

‘I am the Lord of the Earth,’

Says the Gardener,

‘And here are the seedlings

Of my secret soul.’

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