yvette smith (LONDON)

They raised the oak

Then let it gently sink into the soft dark earth

Soon your roots would be rekindled

Some brought candles

Some burnt fires

But no one could interpret the silence

For a sign

Poets sat in bars

At the same chair

Where they were always seated

Copywriting the space

Possessing a certain look

That wasn't theirs, yet...

The midwife nearly always arrived late

And birth was just a second from another death

The children stood laughing at the gate

yvette smith sept 08