Assia Wevill

Assia Wevill

“Summer’s rotting rooks,
Like Thomas Head’s and my times
Unlamented, spring less, passed”
—Assia Wevill,
“Winter’s End, Herefordshire”

David and Assia—strolled a lot
Drawn to the solitude—and mystery
Of cemeteries—black ponds, gone
Autumns—crippled cedar wings

Thomas Head—his name there
On a tombstone—on the grounds of
St. Nicolas Church—Great Hormead
Just a few yards—from Assia’s window

Her marriage to Dick Lipsey—soon over
Their cottage there—next to the cemetery
So very much like—Court Green with its
Tombstones lined up—like a picket fence

Cemeteries—a sense of catastrophe
Seem to connect—the lives of poets
Hughes, Plath—and Assia Wevill
Herefordshire—and Court Green

Assia had a—poetic spirit too
Sensed ghost rivers—in dried beds
Currents, undertows—flowing below
Did she expect—what would happen?