A visit to Sylvia’s Grave
14/06/05
It had rained in the night,
the long grass bent low across the path
soaking my feet;

a slug
clung to the top of one of the stalks,
it looked far too heavy
but the grass held its weight
and didn’t bend.
I wondered if it would snap
if it rained again
and the weight became too much.

That evening we walked up to Sylvia’s grave.

The cemetery was full of wild flowers.
There was blue alkanet growing by the headstone,
a large patch
reaching right from one side to the other.
Did someone plant it
or had it found this its natural home?

Standing there
I thought about her bones beneath my feet
how the earth would have moved them.
I thought about her brain,
how hard she worked it
hot housing it
in a glass jar
of college education,
bending it into creativity,
heating it with fierce competition.
And how it would have been the first part to rot.

Afterwards we walked over to the edge of the cemetery
and looked out across the valley.
Sylvia is on top of the world.
You can see for miles from here.