Writers Abroad Magazine Issue 2 March 2015 | Page 6

WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE

Epitaph for an Artist
A Poem by John Eliot
Twenty years since,
we sat drinking
red grape of the vine
My health;
yours too.
French country garden,
wild, overgrown, hidden;
house of a relentless artist.
With wonder,
I breathed in paintings;
your very existence.
Last night, we sat again, santé.
Raised glasses,
“Grandchildren,” our rebirth.
Santé. One of us is dying.
Not me;
am I glad it is not to be.
My blood is red,
yours is brown.
Next Spring feeding flowers,
in a neat graveyard ground.
WA
Author of Chapbook Ssh

6|March 2015