Sylvia Came to Visit
My children, hot from the sun and dragged
around, perhaps having fun, do not see
why we have come to this walled pen of graves.
Nor why I tramp the trampled grass, a ragged
path between the plots and stones, glance reading
the waiting names: all strange, all unknown, save
a few that have their story carved in brief.
And out beyond, lies a landscape, soft, steep
and green. Relief
comes quietly here. Noiselessly as seeds
falling, and as jumbled as the chatter
from the church fete.
I have come to find a poet who matters
to many, but not to me - much. I rate
Ms Plath good, but too wild and hidden, mad
in all the wrong ways. A consumptive, drawn
to the sea but choking in fear of flood.
Why else climb up here, to lie? To bring sad
searchers for saints to celebrate and mourn:
and offer tokens, like pens. Anger should
shine not dull, or roll like beads of sweat down
necks. Having not
found the grave. And children eager to go
find food, and play more games - then a grey dog
comes wagging toward us, it's body eel
through grass: lithe snake. In search of affection
on light toes, begging leper, blackberry
eyes squeezed from dark to opal blue; peels
us away from this garden of perfection:
back through the iron gates. With all we carry.
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