Seedbed – a poem by Stephen Kingsnorth


We don’t dig up the planted seed
to check if it is germinate;
we forswear checking on its gain,
predicting time it might emerge.
We can only cultivate 
the right conditions, water, light,
that it might thrive, though secretly.
It is that private, silent growth,
that calls to mind annunciate,
or, when time right, epiphany.
For that’s the revelation scene
as garland roots by diamond drops
and minerals have proved their salt,
the sunbed warmth has cossetted
and humous life is resurrect.
Each seed, an Easter garden wait.

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Amethyst Review. His blog is at He is, like so many, a nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net this year.   

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