The passing of time itself

Her passing
Felt like the passing of time itself.
Her death,
Sudden in the end,
A door closing.

She slipped away at summer’s end,
Enough being finally enough.
And the coming winter darker now
The small flame
of her constant presence
Spent.

There are weeds to be pulled
And walnuts to be gathered
Wood to be split and stacked
As the nights draw in.

And life, as they say, goes on
But somehow now
The knowledge that time takes all;
That continuity itself has an end,
Weighs heavier.

Maybe her passing
Calls a halt to that thing we call
‘Post war’
And signals an end
To the constant looking back
To the horror and steadfastness
That vanquished evil
At such terrible price.

But there is something there
Almost a creation myth
From which it is hard to let go:
Of peoples
Scattered across the immensity of our world
Gathered around small fires
United in one great purpose.