Talking to Persephone

by Antonia Kearton

She says she’ll meet me
by the river in its winter colours,
ice licking the rocks, the alder’s trailing fingers.

I watch her come towards me
the goddess of spring
walking across a field of snow

in her long black woollen coat, the one
with the embroidered border, poppy-red.
Her hair is an estuary of pale gold.

I say I’m seeing too much death.  I am afraid,
exhausted, scoured by grief. I want
to know what it’s like, down there.

She says she cannot tell me, but her touch
is warm.  She says that Lethe’s kind,
and crossing the Styx

is nothing to be feared.  Before she goes
she kisses me gently on the cheek,
and whispers in my ear.