A Sprig Of Heather Poem by Adrian Flett

Heaved the loam then, where grass once grew,
disembowelled soil of terra cotta hue.
Deep mortise mouth so neat,
eager then to receive the tenon casket,
yearned to cover what remained of his life.
Yours already reduced to ash
we bring to spread over him.


Heaves the loam now, once exclusive,
at last the domain of all who grieve.
And though so many still perish
in the aftermath of apartheid's vortex
at least side by side we lie.
The young work and play together now
not only at life's end.


Coming down to Applecross in misty
myopic frustration of what we'd missed,
from damp dark soil I pulled a sprig of heather for you.
I was too late, you'd gone.I never knew
until later after London again, Geneva and Thoiry,
at Durban's dreary airport I heard you'd gone.
The heather?I have it still, waiting.

Richmond
28 September 1999