A poem celebrating Elspeth Smith
Your name, to me, a Canadian boy,
Itself was England, part everyday –
Smith, part enigma – Elspeth –
Spelling the way your path
Down to the garden after the party
Was littered with mystery and death,
Both minimised by summer and the flutes
That once held bubbly, romance’s splash
Of fame in the instant, dangerous youth –
Teacups cracked by memories of the Blitz –
Tea that grew in Ceylon when you were young –
Every small gathering, of breath,
Of poem, of friends, started in joy, in kisses,
But would end… I set out to find you, finally,
Because no one else
Had ever scared me with such tiny toys,
Or suggested the widest visions
So gently, as if Christie’s Poirot was poet, too,
The knife opening love letters, but the same
A threat to the heart. On those borders
Of Afghanistan as a child, or daring German
Submarines to reach the opposite of far-away –
You knew infinity is served with jam,
That every living soul has danced before
The morning dew reminds us to awake and fly,
But not until the passion and the blackbird pie.
September 1, 2021
by T Swift