James Sutherland-Smith
All Saints' Day
There’s colour, too, left wherever we might have come from.
By fences of corrugated iron are red berries of bittersweet,
In backyards late apples, Jonathans by name,
Whose burgundy skin stains through the whole fruit
Whenever we take a kitchen knife and slice them.
There are white crysanthemum bouquets on the graves
And lilies, glossy as chinaware, in garlands of conifer.
Round them candles in glasses sputter orange flame.
We stand and say nothing. Far from these minutes in our lives
A train makes a sound like a pencil on a piece of paper.
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Page(s) 57
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