It was in the great frost of that year that she died.
Day after day all water was solid, the town
Came to a tottering standstill. Everything late
Arrived frozen and black. Most things
Did not arrive. No fire warmed.
Long before, nearly all life had fallen
Into a dead slow beat, shuffling survival,
So that her sinking was not so out of place.
Only, terrible to be so cold
Before the eyes close, and know eternity
Will be without movement, paralysed in iron;
And to see on living faces that they too are stone.
For those standing near her grave as the sun came out
Touching the earth, timidly trying to blunt
The first slow icicle, terrible for them
To know that life would return but she had not known that,
And have their own hearts stirring, now too late.