Elizabeth Smither
Throwing Violets into my Father's Grave
Violets tight-wrapped, almost swaddled.
High under the bib of leaves the twine
makes the scent seem to stand on tiptoe.
Coming close to the grave I tossed them
to land on the coffin lid and blaze
for a moment like a blue eye against
the clay walls as they fell. An eye
soon to be snuffed out as violets
are crushed in an embrace against a coat
or wilt in a hat band. ‘I wish’
said my mother, ‘I’d thought of that’
and I wished I had brought two
of the scented bundles, one for each hand
one for mine and one to pass her
that they might pass like glimpses as they fell.
Page(s) 41
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