Written on Sunday 25th October on a personal pilgrimage to see Sylvia Plath’s grave near Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire.
Attempt to strip back to grey
The fiery hues of the day
Trees that try to blow a kiss of life
Into a stone that bears her name.
Each view point rips a shred of muscle
Pains the eyes
To a dripping edge
So much brisker than the city
The silence freezes
In Autumn’s stare.
Passing a marker, which buried beneath
Contains so many words
Never misused.
As the damp air invades
The core temperature is flux
Falling colours mark their fade
And the landscape colours in its own demise
For after the harvest
All is barren
Amidst the graves
As all Hallow’s looms
At Hepstonall
Sky too choked to even cry.
Culture Voyeur 