On this gray March day, after the landscape has been cleaned by a week of rain, this poem from the devastating Stevie Smith (1902-1971) comes to mind.
“Black March”
I have a friend
At the end
Of the world.
His name is a breath
Of fresh air.
He is dressed in
Grey chiffon. At least
I think it is chiffon.
It has a
Peculiar look, like smoke.
It wraps him round
It blows out of place
It conceals him
I have not seen his face.
But I have seen his eyes, they are
As pretty and bright
As raindrops on black twigs
In March, and heard him say:
I am a breath
Of fresh air for you, a change
By and by.
Black March I call him
Because of his eyes
Being like March raindrops
On black twigs.
(Such a pretty time when the sky
Behind black twigs can be seen
Stretched out in one
Uninterrupted
Cambridge blue as cold as snow.)
But this friend
Whatever new names I give him
Is an old friend. He says:
Whatever names you give me
I am
A breath of fresh air,
A change for you.
A beautiful breath of cold crisp March. Thank you for this lovely poem.
This is just what I needed this morning, a breath of fresh air, a change. Thank you for sharing.
Smith’s theme here is the grim reaper: it is Death itself who’s talking in this poem. It is not just pretty landscapes poetry: there’s much more to it.