Poetry

The Violet Myra Schneider

The Violet   I walk fast past the park’s naked trees but today even the train grumbling over the viaduct fails to silence the turbulence in my head. Out of habit I stop   by the patch of violet hearts at the edge of the copse. How green they are after the autumn’s long rain. Last April didn’t bring shoures soote to pierce   the droghte of March so the buds are dried up, the leaves yellowed. I stoop and no, it’s not imagination: under a branch ridged like a fossil one small bloom   has defied December. Somehow the…

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