My childhood parish dripped and danced with
Wildflowers: buttercups, cowslips, forget
Me nots and devil’s bread beneath hedge buds.
The white, embossed roses on the tiny
Coffin of a girl knocked down on the road
That the whole primary school walked to the
Church for the first funeral for most of us.
We crossed ourselves, abruptly aware
Of how the flowers can’t save us but
How they do cross with us at thin places.
My friend and I took to picking posies
To lay on her, and another child’s, graves.
Above them the life size crucifix rose
Silent sorrow bleeding holy rain.
Their guardian God, acquainted with grief.
We’d lay our flowers then kissed Jesus’s feet.
Jacquie Bryson lives in the hills outside Belfast with her family. She has worked in education and community relations. Her poetry and a short story have been published in 'A New Ulster' and 'The Big Issue'. jacqsblog.art.blog/