In this shovel of earth I take
the disappearing heat of the day,
the uberous roots of the ivy,
the onetime stone of the pebble
and the undying curiosity of the living
that stays in the lime’s sterile white dust.
The blossoms that we burn
have neither wintered nor summered
there is irony, too much for their own good,
in those blossoms that have only lost colour
and great satisfaction in watching
them go up in black smoke.
And it is hard not to think of deadly things.
Taken from ‘This is Where We Came In’
(1992), page 113.
© Copyright John Doorty