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  Arthur Seeley
   
      A dew that flies.

Beyond the shades
of the coupled
ash and phoenix,

across a small dirt road,
in a neighbouring field,
I find her,

the headstone
heavily erect,
'Sylvia Plath Hughes';

spirit of the air
pegged
in cloven pine.

Someone has picked
at the scab of earth;
cherished her, cursed him;

planted flowers,
limp in the heat,
and a ragged mosaic of flat stones,

artless
as a child's fancy
on a summer beach.

Lady Lazarus unrisen.

So poets die,
mouths plugged with earth,
lips censured by worms,

chemistry stopped,
direction altered
unalterably,

silenced,
left to change,
under the benign blue,

promises unfulfilled:
dry mornings
of unfetched dew.

This is a place
where storms gather
to destroy churches.

The one,
a shell,
gapes, gale-torn,

a wound
unhealed
by the obliterations of grass;

the carved cornice
of the other, toppled
by a fusing bolt.

 



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