The Ghost of Sylvia Plath
Walking on Parliament Hill
A Sharp Winter biting at my face..
Thinking ... of that day in ’63 ...not far from here ...
..in a kitchen .. the ghost of Sylvia Plath
Succumbing to the gaseous substance in her mind.
The children ...where were the children on that day?
Locked away..banished from her thoughts.
No one can ever know her feelings in that final hour.
Her heart... darker than the grey London sky
That is a backdrop to the winter browns and greens.
There is a solemn beauty to the quiet of the Park
And is that her ahead of me?
Is that her in a belted gaberdine
Singing ‘Daddy’ to her gurgling child ?
The large black pram , wheels crunching on the debris of the path.
Is she smiling ...?
I will never know.
But now...
The ghost fades as I approach the Exit Gate
And my reflections are consumed by the exploding thunder
Of a million cars
And I head on for Soho Square.
Kristine Byrne 15th July 2012