By Eva Willes Wangsgaard
Her talk was often of the Sussex downs,
Of fogs that drenched the noonday violet,
Of hedgerows sweet with honeysuckle crowns,
Of clumps of lavender and mignonette.
But hills were lonely after oceans drew
Her people from her to this desert place;
She followed, but these alien breezes blew
No scent of rain-wet May and heather lace.
Her heart crept back to what the downs could give.
Returning was her silver path of hope.
But seas are wide and Death imperative –
Today we laid her on this arid slope.
Can this be Sussex Road? Yet, who can say
Where she has gone? Her downs, how far away?