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.