Sean Scully's Grave
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