Early garden
by Sr Mary Stephen


My high look-out serves me well

as all the birds can tell,

when, quick glance behind

over the shoulder, well programmed

for ‘watch out’,

they chuck or trill, as they slip

under a treeful of sunshine.


A thrush stops, looks up,

then, with a happy rush

dashes towards my window

as though he knows I am writing about him.

But, does he know, can he guess

that I know he is composing

a song to sing for me?


Easter Sunrise
by Sr Mary Stephen


We watched you dying, harrowing the sight

You were so dead: can hope live in the grave?

We went, our sorrow wept away the night,

Nothing could now our yester-yearning save.

The morning broke, never such beauty told,

Those streams of crimson slashed across the skies,

From palest green of hope to glorious gold,

Beyond, the deepest blue of presence lies.

I’ll seek him with sweet violets for his bed

And finding him will never let him go.

The stranger, questioned, sudden turned his head

And ‘Mary’, told me what I ached to know.

For I who see you risen, by your grace

Shall live forever with you face to face.