cars wake with a small snore’ – Lyn Hatherly (1945-2016)
When a poet with a poet’s eye, heart and mind
Dies we know that she could only have been
Made by another poet under the female moon
on a planet where the stones that take a million
years to emerge are the abrasive eggs of a womb
burning with images of life and visions of love.
When love shapes work, when living breathes
its warm mist on the frosty mind; when the poet
never leaves her poem; when the poem has gone
so far inside her that she need never spell it out,
we know she has done the work that gods have
always dreamed of doing. None of this we know
can save her from being cast precisely from the cliff
or save her from being shot like any bird from its sky
leaving everything she was unseen.
When she listened to the day waking up beside her
it was there falling in love with her all over again
with its magpies, streets, cars and gardens crowding up
to be in her poem with her, the endless poemof love and grief and parting.