For Sylvia (Sylvia Plath died 11th February 1963.)
The freezing, icy winter’s breath
The snow of ‘63
It pained your heart, your bones, your flesh
That isolating February.
With blood-red lips you’d bit his cheek
And he’d set free your hair
How could you then destroy his books?
How could he just have left you there?
Impassioned, magic Sylvia
So fierce, so strong, so hurt
You wrote the poems one on one
Your captivating verse.
If it had been a summer’s day
Perhaps, perhaps, maybe
Some gentle warmth would melt the pain
Release the grip of agony.
And when we hear recordings
Your voice all round and strong
The English cadences ring-ring
Yet fifty years have gone.
For fifty years your poetry
Black lakes, red roses, blood
You gifted us your legacy
Word drenching, blesséd flood.
No comments:
Post a Comment