I have a knack for seeing beauty in the most unusual places. Today’s poem, from my Mindfield collection, came from an early childhood incident (recalled as an adult) when I had my first close encounter with death.
For me, the colour of death is purple
Lining my fixation with a black coffin,
Draping an altar, dominant in the wreaths
Of my uncle’s passing; he drowned
All beauty of death
Drowned in moaning,
A grieving household blind in weeping.
Morbid that a child still dearly loves
The colour purple; at my uncle’s parting
They saw death, I saw the flowers.