And who will bring me a nest, furry warm?

‘I,’ squeaked the Rat, ‘When we hide from the storm . . .

But who will care for the treasures we give?’

‘I,’ said the Child.

‘For as long as I live.’

Clare Bevan

A Memory

A Memory

Honey holds a memory of bees

Salt holds a memory of seas

Snow holds a memory of cold

Rock holds a memory of gold

Lily holds a memory of white

Moon holds a memory of bright

Bear holds a memory of sleep

River holds a memory of deep

Cloud holds a memory of sky

Mountain holds a memory of high

Wood holds a memory of tree

The world holds a memory of ME

Louise Greig

A Drop in the Ocean

A Drop in the Ocean

Sloshing around

in life’s restless sea,

there’s a drop in the ocean –

and that drop is me.

Riding the waves,

or washed up on the shore,

I’m a minuscule drop

amongst zillions more.

I’m a drop in the ocean

of life’s restless sea –

but there’d be no ocean

without drops like me!

Jane Clarke

Voices of Water

Voices of Water

The water in the rain says

Tick Tick Tack

The water in the sleet says

Slush

The water in the ice says

Crick Crick Crack

The water in the snow says

Hush

The water in the sink says

Slosh Slosh

The water in the tap says

Drip

The water in the bath says

Wash Wash

The water in the cup says

Sip

The water in the pool says

Splish Splash

The water in the stream says

Trill

The water in the sea says

Crish Crash

The water in the pond . . .

stays still.

The water in the soil says

Sow, Sow

The water in the cloud says

Give

The water in the plant says

Grow, Grow

The water in the world says

Live

Tony Mitton

Roots

Roots

It’s a quiet job

being a root.

No one hugs you,

climbs you

or praises your

intricate ways.

Roots work

in the dark.

And it’s hard work

tunnelling,

travelling,

finding nutrition.

But when

the storms come

it’s our fingers

which cling.

When the drought comes

it’s our lips

that drink.

Without us

the ground would crumble.

Without us

life would fall.

Everyone

needs roots.

Steve Turner

Bulb

Bulb

Smooth fingers touch my papery skin,

place me in soil

in a shallow hole, cover me.

Loam and grains soothe,

and trickling water comforts.

I rest; seem dead, but only sleep.

I wait.

And all at once, a tingle urges

slender threads to slip from me,

roots to feed me,

roots to anchor me.

And then my head surges

and a shoot, green as a frog,

forces up through earth,

reaches the light.

I shall burst with brilliance,

a blazing trumpet of daffodil

blaring at the sun.

When my yellow fades

to crisp parchment, I shall stay

in my secret cavern, know worm and beetle,