Life After Death


Something startled me:

where I thought I was safest

where I thought I belonged

so I will follow Whitman—

avoid the still woods I love

and fields where I used to walk.

I won’t emerge from my home

to meet friends in open spaces

or hug them and share a coffee,

there are no cafes anymore.


Even the ground has sickened.

Men in white spray disinfectant

over streets to stem disease.


Yet, I’m alive to sounds of spring

rising from death and decay of winter.

I’m alive to the prospect of summer

when death-fertilised ground shows life

where even death had planted blooms.


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