It is the past tense that lacerates,
“She was, she wrote, she did, she lived, she said”
Life and the world go on, but she is dead.
To speak of her now, we must use both dates.
Art has its life and lives, and hers will last
But human life runs out, comes to an end,
And we remain to mourn a loss, a friend,
Bereft of future, leaving only past.
She, at an age when others were retired
Went right on making, never ceased to strive,
Intense and caring, always she inspired,
Helping new writers grow and work and thrive,
Banked down, but burning bright, still dragon-fired.
How could she die, when she was so alive?
5th February 2018