Somewhere around the age of 13, I stumbled across a thin volume of poetry with the inscrutable title Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle. I was hooked. The entire collection impressed me so deeply that I never forgot any single verse within. While I held on to my deteriorating paperback copy for decades, it eventually went the way of all things.
Last year, I got to thinking about a few of those poems. Without a lot of hope, I searched the title on Amazon and found that I wasn’t alone. A lot of people remembered this little book fondly, and it was still available as a reprint. I now own a new copy.
All day yesterday was spent in the Sisyphean task of sweeping up dog hair. Somewhere in the process, this poem—from the same collection—came to mind and has been echoing around there ever since.
Enjoy!
Dust
by Sydney King Russell
Agatha Morley
All her life
Grumbled at dust
Like a good wife.
Dust on a table,
Dust on a chair,
Dust on a mantel
She couldn’t bear.
She forgave faults
In man and child
But a dusty shelf
Would set her wild.
She bore with sin
Without protest,
But dust thoughts preyed
Upon her rest.
Agatha Morley
Is sleeping sound
Six feet under
The mouldy ground.
Six feet under
The earth she lies
With dust at her feet
And dust in her eyes.