A poem celebrating Elspeth Smith

A poem celebrating Elspeth Smith

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
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