When finally the boatman comes
To ferry me across the Styx,
Don’t stay to wave me out of sight
But turn again to living things.
Turn back towards the healing sun
And in some patch of cherished earth
Scatter a wilderness of phlox,
Of lilac, foxgloves, hollyhocks,
That from my shore, with straining eyes,
I see their spires of blossoms rise
And catch upon a straying wind
The fragrance of their scent and yours.
November 1989