Sean Scully's Grave

You haven't lived until you've seen a field of yellow daisies growing out of Burren limestone rock.

I sit among the stone graves of saints and sinners from long ago,
flowers sprouting from rock like resurrection Sunday.
I wonder if Sean Scully had a favorite flower,
purple periwinkle, perhaps,
and I wonder if he misses lamb stew and Irish potatoes
in the great beyond.
The birds sing the original liturgy,
and I wonder if Sean pauses to admire
the yellow center, white fingers reaching,
of the daisies growing 'round his grave.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019

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