In Her Passing
Now we are truly old.
In the final closing of those eyes,
in the last fitful fluttering of her fingers
and the resignation of her senses to eternity
we have aged, have become her.
All that we knew of her –
- that part of her story which spoke our name,
which mingled it with hers
and shared out the years between us –
- has become history.
My childhood’s unblemished face,
my inchoate ambitions and wanton boyish hopes:
all of them windstrewn memories
blown one breeze closer to oblivion.
In her death
I see the approach of mine more clearly,
lying in ambush up ahead of me.
She is gone,
taking a part of us with her.
Now we too are old.