Loss – Elegy for my grandmother

In loving memory, France Farmer (1918-2012)
I like it best in the morning,
when the cool air still
has something new to say
about the day to come.
Yet a little lamp has gone out
in my home today.
I have known it all my life,
and it has grown dark
all of a sudden.

But light comes,
as usual,
dawn is there,
as usual.
And soon everything
is humming and buzzing
as it should.
There is drilling in my street,
like yesterday;
Planes are taking off for
faraway destinations
– Alexandria maybe –
like the day before;
Subway cars are stopping
at their stops and
mothers are shopping
in their shops;
Children, restless,
are bored in school.
Like tomorrow, no doubt;
While you, dearest,
have gone gently
into that good night.

Words for the time being,
have lost all meaning.
All salt. All savour.
Yet listen well:
a murmur – a deep-rooted
A whisper of a friendly wind,
murmurs of a stranger
to stranger yet than she;
‘nothing again
will ever be
the way it was –
because you were:
and so are we.’

So go gently.
Go gently, please,
go gently
and rest,
into that good
morning light.