The snowdrops are alive beside the dead,
In the midst of death they are in dazzling bloom,
Whilst he whose grave they now with grace adorn
Feeds on their sweetness from his long-time tomb.

They in their turn have derived life from him,
Their vibrance and their colour owe him much.
His bones, his ashes now repay their debt,
As death withdraws its unremitting touch.

And thus his ancient decomposed remains
Return to life as snowdrops in due time,
And seek to adorn my table once again,
As beauteous now as he was in his prime.

And when those snowdrops fade away and die
Their wholesome goodness will my soil replenish;
Then once again the cycle will repeat,

Nature affirming life will never perish.


Both photographs taken in a Surrey churchyard . . . WHB – Jan.2017

8 thoughts on “Snowdrops

Comments are closed.