An Epitaph

(for Yin)

You are returned to the shadows of a name that was never you,

Yin: dark, passive, quiet, all-absorbing. In the end

Your name became you. I’m told the lupus tore the petals

From the flower that was your face: that your smile shrivelled

To a dry parody of itself; and that you never laughed again.

I cannot imagine you, submissive, lying down

On the railway track, waiting for the train

That would take you away from us all.

They say a note was found in the wastepaper basket

Of a seedy room in a King’s Cross hotel, crumpled up,

The words lost in a criss-cross of creases

As if your desperation was unworthy

Of further attention. No-one who knew

The bright sparkling jewel that was you

Could have dreamed up such a demise.

We are unwise after the event, each one of us shaken:

The terrible beauty that is life,

That is living, mystifies constantly,

Tears us from the soft womb of complacency.

I do not understand, Yin,

For all the years I’ve been here,

For all the books I’ve read,

For all of everything I’ve ever felt,

I do not understand.

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