Life After Death

Something has startled me 

where I thought I was safest,

where I thought I belonged,

so I will follow Whitman

in avoiding the still woods I loved

and the fields where I used to walk.

I won’t emerge from my home 

to meet my friends in the open spaces,

or hug them and share a coffee, 

there are no cafes anymore, in any case.

Even the ground has sickened.

The men in white suits spray disinfectant 

over streets and beaches to stem its diseased flow.

But still I’m alive to the sounds of spring

rising from the decay and death of winter.

Still I’m alive to the prospect of summer

when the fertilised ground shows the life

that death has bestowed on it and blooms.


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