On the death of my grandmother


Life is a miser’s fire, jealous of fuel,
Its slightest motes with chosen purpose burn;
Its constant silent flame doth not consume
The wood, it only shrivels leaf and bloom;
And so the tree lives its dying return
To dust; most tender anguish proves most cruel.
For once the spark is fled no alchemy
Can coax the rosy tongue to reignite;
A novel transmutation must begin
As a cold wind shakes them that stand around,
Sift memory’s ash the golden seed to win
Against the season that renews the ground:
A time when death is not hope’s enemy,
The winter turned with memories of light.

Reuben Thomas
11th–12th February 2012

This document was translated from LATEX by HEVEA.

Last updated 2012/02/21