Mother Mary, eyes cast downwards
to the cracks in the tarmac, witness to
where her blood veined outside her body
where her body gave up
.
fresh flowers are laid here everyday
some by the wild cherry
who can’t forget those other eyes
that turned up appreciatively to it’s boughs
its young sapped leaves reached for her
.
someone has lit a candle for her soul
it flickers how dawn appears through silver birch, and she is still running
.
and she is still running
.
from here to there
the air clouds her ghost
the colour of pollen
and dapples her here
and not here
.
but of course, the flowers
are not for her, nor the candle
nor Mother Mary her eyes cast down
to the stretch of road where she lay, no,
they are for the man that hit her
and she is still running
.
Susannah Violette has had poems placed or commended in the Plough Prize, Westival International Poetry Prize, the Frogmore poetry prize, Coast to Coast to Coast pamphlet comp and appeared in various publications worldwide most recently Strix and Eyeflash.
