Wednesday, 7 March 2018

ST DAVID'S DAY POEM


ST DAVID’S DAY, LONDON, 2018

So splendidly bleak, this St David’s Day.
A cold corpse of a day, the blood drained
from its veins, the cemetery’s rare lush shades
reduced to weak tints of green, brown, grey.

The air’s as empty as the white duvet’d plots
and I wonder, where are the parakeets
that love to flock screeching across the dead.
They’re absent as daffs.  Perhaps drawing lots.

Lonely headstones crook proud of iron ground.
Heavy-winged angels seem to grieve again.
In the snow-silence the present dominates.
There is no then or when, but only now.

Snow obliterates borders, ways. So I plant
my feet where I wouldn’t, oblivious
of foul or infringement.  This is all one place.
We all come: you and I and Dewi Sant.

Wynn Wheldon

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