More Sting

There are some people who hold up the sky
Who, by existing, make a place to be
A wider, better, world, for us, for me.
You somehow don’t imagine they could die.

Yet die they do, and though the sky should weep
The world goes on bereft, and so do we
Remembering their idiocyncrasy
We laugh, and read, and eat, and write, and sleep.

And new people get born, and this is good,
They hold the sky in turn, and they are great
But they can never know, or meet, how could
Death be so cruel, that they were born too late?
We tell them, but they have not understood.
This is the sting that death has kept in wait.

6th March 2022