BOOK OF THE DEAD

Just yesterday this scabious was closed,

a green brooch stiff on its stem

beside the cart track.

The bracts have now bent back,

its load of blue exploding on the world.

The petals, not unlike this transient lake of sky,

lie flat under umbrella anthers

as delicate as waking dreams.

Close by, a gate shuts in

a yard of patient Herefords, heads drooped,

while in the brick farm house

a girl holds her first-born to the light

beside the kitchen sink. If she looked up,

she’d see the flower beside the gate,

but she is gazing at another blue,

two scabious eyes. That such translucent skin is possible!

These are pages from the Book of the Dead.