In Southall Cemetery

A magic field of light and daffodil,
its headstones angled on a grassy shield
as in a sea, with waves of yew, until
a magic field

is boat-filled, trafficking. As I stand stock-still
an old stone-cold assumption has to yield,
as something joins with human care and skill

for something more. From death, that’s less than nil,
an instant of soul’s loveliness is revealed:
a star-filled sea, a city on a hill,
a magic field.

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