Thelma Cann
Home
A Mither
Full Moon on a Cloudy Night
Forward Looking
Greeting My Grandfather
At the Eleventh Hour
Mary's Sang
The Funeral
Pyatknowe
My Faither's Words
Fallen Angel
Newbigging Road
Quean for a Day
The Booncin Baa
A Winter Dawn
Men at Work
The Milestane
Biggar Kirk
Brownsbank Cottage
Nuala's Art
Writer-in-Residence
Tweed at Peebles
On Biggar Pond
Elegy
Fowre Haiku oan the Beach
Yr Wyddfa
Thelma Cann
Old Acquaintance
Philip Pullman
The Dooble Rainbae
Ten Haiku from Whitecastle Hill
Tanka
Medwyn Below Greenshields
Sclimbin the Knock
Gled
Whaup Eggs
Socrates
Wha made this road?
Snow

There is a definite spring in her step,

as she potters among her crocks and beds,

harvesting her crop of late winter weeds,

and planting summer bulbs in pockets deep.

She is very neat and deliberate

in her movements, methodical and spare,

as she nips and tucks and tills, here and there,

like the court-dancing doves on her doocot.

 

Her garden becomes her, as she becomes

her garden.  They circle one another,

weaving an intimacy together

from the secrets they share of spores and corms,

while, on the doocot roof, the two doves feed

each from the mirror of the other’s need.