POEM OF THE MONTH

Sedgeford Good Friday

Hot blood-orange sun lazing down into the ea,
Full moon ghosting up the other side of the sky.
Under the ivied walls and over-wrought iron gates
Of the Victorian graveyard, a new grave
Loaded with love-blooms defies mortality
Among the primroses. A plot against Death.
The sky is full of larks and I'm full of Broadside
And full of myself anyway: it's my 35th birthday.
Beyond the crumbling wall, the fields have ploughed
Through yet another winter and lie back in the sun -
Knackered ancient whores winking like virgins.
All down the sun-slackened tarmac to the woods,
Finches fleece hedgerow like there's no tomorrow
Or yesterday. Holiday cottagers hammer things up
And dust neglect away. Mozart is playing somewhere
In the distance. But here in the graveyard,
Perfect stillness....
My daughter's reduced copy of my hand
Hoists me homeward. There's a daffodil chill
On the air. Her face is a tiny March leaf,
Her snuggle-riding body on my back
Is fresh as the daisy that hasn't quite sprung,
The summer in bud. I'm the finished version.
I guess they'll be carving my dates clear as Spring
On one of these stones eventually, paying
The sextons double time because digging
A grave into chalk is like trying to get blood
Out of a stone. But all in good time. Carpe Diem.
I've had a good Friday. Days like these
Are worth dying for.

© Gareth Calway, March 2002