stopped at the lights
I noticed a little girl
on the edge of a tantrum
all scowly face
and stampy legs
as she tested the boundaries
the struggle between autonomy
and safety
her mother talked calmly
over the curly head
to her own mother
but held the tiny hand throughout
by the time the lights changed to green
the little toddler legs were still
and a smile was edging out the frown
the patience of generations
guiding the energy of this tiny soul
© Claire Griffin 2016
there is an old fig tree
at the back of the family garden
and at the end of a long hot summer
it is dripping with fruit
we picked figs today
ripe and soft
some we broke open
and ate
some fell to the ground
and burst
with sticky hands
we filled a bag in minutes
plenty left for the birds
we drank tea and talked
catching up on recent weeks
sharing stories, laughing
supporting each other’s dreams
without question
it took an hour and a half to drive home
and by then
the sky had clouded
I take time opening the bag
and arranging the figs
each one a precious harvest
I break one open
and sunlight fills the kitchen
© Claire Griffin 2016
We close the circle
our fingertips touch.
We are the seed
the tight-curled tip of fern
the last branch.
We sing the names of generations.
Each note of sorrow.
Each verse of endurance.
There is no pain
in ending here –
arms around
the tree that bore us.
Hands touching
closing the circle.
We are the blossom
and the fruit.
(written years ago – recognising the reality of being the last in one branch of the family)
invisible necessity 