Into the hills of Galilee
Our Lady went one day,
Lured by the wonder-woven bloom
Dropped from the looms of May.

Slim lilies leaned to touch her gown.
Curving through delicate air,
A fledgling thrush flew to her hand,
Butterflies to her hair.

She told a secret to the winds
That brushed her garment hem-
The tear-wet, pitying winds that blew
Up from Jerusalem.

And as she spoke a little Name,
Whispering low and sweet,
A golden surf of buttercups
Broke against her feet.

The winds and flowers of Galilee,
Grown wistful of her face,
Still wait her footfall at the May
Gentle, and full of grace

M Therese