Rain And Dark Skies On This Mothers Day

Spring Makes Us Wait


   Oh what would I give to hand my mother a gift on this special day, to tell her I love her and see her smile, just one minute that's all I'd ask, just one minute. To ask where I go, how I head forward and to hear her voice so calm and warm would I know turn this big man into a small kid once again. To all out there who have their mum to spoil and love today, make it last every second of this special Sunday and every day to come.
   After a week of thinking spring was upon us and the first sunshine of the year warming our backs we now enjoy yet another cold wet weekend, no use to man or beast. Once more gardens all over the east will be too wet to work and log piles and coal bunkers are once more pillaged by red faced fen tigers weather beaten by a long winter.
   Hot porridge and toast is taken on this cold damp Sunday morning by those thinking of early morning cuppa sitting on patio's of stone in summers early sun, today they watch through windows as rain and sleet fall over the dark soil and even the odd flake of snow dances down towards the ground.
   No summer dresses and hats head to church and chapel on this day of worship just winter coat and scarf pass through those great timber doors hung on pillars of stone.
   My plan of garden work will wait another day and to my torch I will head, a warm day beside my kiln with glass to melt and beads to form and as I work my eyes will watch a thousand times the wet world outside through old glass pane with webs of fine silk thread in every corner.
    Memories of Sunday mornings will flood my mind, that child helping his grandad in wet garden will appear, his black wellington boots and torn winter coat to keep him warm while dung was dug in and bonfire  would smoulder for half the day and every quarter those church bells would chime making him look up towards that tall spire topped with a golden weather cock.