Emily Dickinson

Well, I've tried for a couple of weeks now to write about all the death that has surrounded me and what it means for the lives of those of us who, at the time of writing, remain. But since I haven't really succeeded in describing what it means, I thought--on the tenth anniversay of my mother's death, and one day after Maureen's funeral--that I'd stand back and let one of my favourite poets, Emily Dickinson, do the job properly. Pay attention, everyone. This is how they do it in the Premier League.

Because I could not stop for Death--
He kindly stopped for me--
The Carriage held but just Ourselves--
And Immortality.

We slowly drove--He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his Civility--

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess--in the Ring--
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--
We passed the Setting Sun--

Or rather--He passed Us--
The Dews drew quivering and chill--
For only Gossamer, my Gown--
My Tippet--only Tulle--

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground--
The Roof was scarcely visible--
The Cornice--in the Ground--

Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity--