Boomslang Poetry

Ophelia

By the time she really died
there were no flowers left, no pansies,
fennel or rue, no violets, no daisies;
no-one remembered rosemary.

Her Sisters laid her bird body
on grey chapel marble, surrounded
her with stagís horn and moss,
with ceps, morels, ink caps.

Beneath was a slick of kelp
and bladderwrack, oarweed
and dulse, her salty slipway
to riverís mouth and the tide.