Persephone on the
She was already half way there.
In the funnel-web of London,
under the layers of Waterloo,
she heard her train plunge out of hiding around a corner.
She started to run, and as she ran
sprigs of dried heather fell from her
as she shed grace
and the darker seasons.
You would have thought she was made of a whole garden
as she crumbled into the oncoming air
into rosemary, sage and poppy-heads,
apple-mint and thyme
a ticker-tape of rose-petals in the corridor,
celebrating her stumble
into the underworld.
If you've any comments on this poem, Gregory Leadbetter would be pleased to hear from you.