The Secret of the Wicker Casket

8664231312_b78c3a3679_zDeath lay silent within the wicker basket

so carefully woven into a casket.

Six foot long and as wide as a life,

it cradles the memories of a girl, mother and wife.


She nestles in the silk like meadow picked flowers.

Scented like daisies, she whiles away hours

waiting for the moment that her soul lets go

of a body enchained to a world far below.


She remembers warm lanes with her sister and brother,

mimicking the lambs who bleat for their mother.

Pedalling so fast, the wind in her hair.

Free as a dove, as light as the air.


She plucks at a vision of Summers by the sea.

Before there were husbands, pushchairs and pee.

The days before bruises on thighs, backs and heads,

eons before sunset when she was finally dead.


And in this last journey entombed in her skin,

she’s concocting a gift to bring comfort to him.

She’ll fill all  his nightmares, wait for the scream,

and haunt every hour of morning’s daydream.

© Jacqui Thatcher 2014

It doesn’t take much sometimes to inspire a poem.  And this poem was one of those that was inspired as I passed a hearse on the road to the Crematorium.  I was surprised by the wicker coffin as I had not seen an ‘eco’ coffin before and I was delighted.  It seems so wholesome, somehow, so ‘mother earth’.  Who had died, I wondered?  How had they died?  What kind of person would have a wicker coffin?  Was it all as ‘Greenpeace’ as it seemed.  And so the story began…..

Dylan Thomas: A centenary celebration


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

by Dylan Thomas, originally published in 1951

Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea on 27th October 2014.   He died on 9th November 1953.

There are many celebrations planned for his centenary.

Saturday 26th October 2014

In the US:

Dylan Thomas in America, Centennial Exhibition opens today at:

92nd Street Y
1395 Lexington Avenue
New York, NY 10128

In the UK, check out (and also some international dates can be found here):

To find out more about the poet: