As she makes her first gift to the brisk,
Cold, and patient water, she feels the kiss
Of the waves on her feet. She hears their voices, too.
She’s certain that she’s going mad, again.
My memory of her walks slowly out,
Away from me: across the fluent stream.
Now the hem of her dress is rising as it
Curtsies to the water: a gesture which
Betrays her. She defiantly had placed
Two stones in each pocket of her coat:
One for fear, and one for bravery.
I almost remember her: see, there she goes,
She strides towards an infinite, to free
Herself from him, and from her failing self:
Writing her death in the river. Her living ink
Billows out, clouds; and only gently pales,
Struggles at her heart, the neck, the lips,
Her silent mouth, her art now weighted down
By our waiting river, and a solemn gown of stones.
The death of Virginia Woolf, one of the most important writers in my life, has always haunted me. Do look up her biography, and please do read some of her works if you have yet to enjoy them.