The Lost Princess


After the news, the thunder
Rolling from the warm hills with torrential rain
Falling on the morning when you gave up life,
All passions and concerns.  Appropriate
Weather for the last rites – Summer’s ending
Fuels an abject sense of loss, and those
Round whom we come to weave our dreams
Can never be replaced.  I shall think always
Of an ordinary Sunday when I woke,
Turned on the radio, got up, made busy,
And found out that the world had stopped.