A gardener imagines death during the pandemic, 2020. A poem by Angela Graham

Is this what I will see:
against a haze of blue a yellow iris
− spear among green blades −
calling me upwards from my final stumble;
no time to name them, each one
and everything I’ve loved, but a yellow
that is all that yellow is
assuming me? Or
eyes behind a visor, summoning me
towards all that human is?


I am a writer, living in Ballycastle, County Antrim. Website here.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *