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.