My daughter and I went to visit Sylvia Plath’s grave again in Heptonstall, West Yorkshire at the weekend. (I know, it’s just one thrill ride after another at our house.)
It was a stunningly sunny day and I took the liberty of stealing a couple of leaves from her grave as a memento.
Now, some people might consider that tantamount to desecration.
I must add, however, that if you look at the picture I took of her grave back in March versus the one I took last Saturday, you could argue that I was merely ‘pruning’.
Whatever side of the felonious fence you sit upon, here’s a photo of Exhibit A.
Anyhoo, after sticking the leaves in my sketchbook and pondering them for a while, I decided to write a poem about them.
So, here it is
by David Milligan-Croft.
A leaf stolen
from Sylvia Plath’s grave.
I wonder if the atoms
from her decaying, mortal flesh
have permeated terra firma?
Her nutrient-rich essence
seeping into the soil
absorbed by the roots,
rising up through the stem,
branching out into the veins.
Verdant leaves vignette to aubergine,
unfurl to the scintilating light,
as though – with eyes closed –
she stretches out her slender arms
to the glorious, morning sun.