The Poetry Kit |
| Arthur Seeley | |||
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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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