13/03/2026
One of our members had a beautiful moment recently that we want to share...
Late one evening, sitting alone in a silent house, he was rereading something he'd just written when he heard a faint crack from the pot of daffodils on the table beside him. He thought he'd imagined it then it came again. The buds were opening.
He reached for his pen and wrote this poem before the moment could fade. Maybe you'll catch a little of that magic too.
๐ท Poem and photo courtesy of Steve Duckworth
๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ผ๐๐ป๐ฑ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ฎ ๐๐ฎ๐ณ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ถ๐น ๐ข๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ป๐ถ๐ป๐ด
It's late in the evening.
I'm alone at my table.
The house lies in darkness
save for a single lamp.
I sit wrapped in the silence,
just how I like it.
Only the distant clock โ
ticโฆ tocโฆ ticโฆ tocโฆ
My hand guides the pen
back and forth across the page,
turning thoughts into words
and words into stories.
The silence breaks โ
not by a neighbour's dog
nor a passing car.
There it is again.
I stop and listen.
A tiny, fragile crack.
On the table beside me
the daffodils begin to open.
Petals stretching slowly
from their winter sleep.
I sit very still
in the circle of lamplight,
listening carefully
as one flower opensโฆ
and then another.
There are many still to come.
Alone in the quiet
I feel quietly privileged
to hear something so small.
