Poem of the Month

July 2018

Woodland Burial – by Iris Anne Lewis

A different type of pillow talk

we chose the plot together,

you rooted to the hospice bed

by tubes delivering opium sap.


You wanted oak and ash to

shelter you in broadleaved woods,

and in return to nurture them

with mouldered bone and flesh.


Tethered still to life, you slip into a

shadowed sleep. Death creeps closer,

steals your breath and shifts you to

a different state. I close your eyes.


Drifts of bluebells mark your spot.

Light, leaf-dappled, casts patterns on

your shaded grave. Bare branches arc

a latticed vault against the winter skies.


Encased in willow, you now begin

your slow and secret work in deep

secluded dark, becoming one

with earth and plants and rain and sun.