Epitaph

Here is my garden, a queer little place;
Stalks stab the heavens and perch there, bold;
Stems of hard steel and leaves of rough brick
Flourish here gravely, unyielding and cold.
Neat little, grim little, rows of stiff hedges,
With rectangular holes that are window panes;
My trees are the lamp posts, monotonous, gaunt,
Which flower at night in glittering lanes.
The soil is rich in cement, brick and tar,
Tunnelled by endless worms of piped gas;
In this flowering Eden shall I lie crisp,
Between Tel & Tel cables and one blade of dead grass

SYLVIA EDITH MACKEY.