AS SYLVIA PLATH DIES, MY GRANDFATHER CYCLES TO WORK IN LONDON
M. J. ARLETT
The pipes have not frozen like this
in a hundred years. The air a mill
of hooks, each breath
he will cough up pearls.
as petals do into the tight pink fist
of a chrysanthemum.
Once thawed, his fingers will ink letters,
penmanship charged by the hour.
His words are art as hers
are paint. For now,
At Regent’s Park, an ambulance,
ghostly and timid in the snow,
its wheels waltzing on the yet-to-be-gritted road.
It is a Monday, snow falling
since Christmas and all morning the morning
has refused to step out of whiteness.