(for my grandmother)
Arid, this acid soil:
Silver-grey, it whips in the
wind
Like ash from dead
cigarettes.
The pines have soaked the
goodness
From the land
And nothing else grows here:
No grass, no daisies;
Not even the wild pink
foxgloves
Whose bells would steal our
wishes.
Even the lichen, crusted on
your headstone
Has withered: dry and dusty,
It crumbles to my finger
Which traces the weathered
letters
Of your name.
Read more of Dee Rimbaud's
poetry
Check out Dee
Rimbaud's books
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