She fought it hard, this slow death.
cell that relinquished its green
became the Enemy – each
sag, each ache, each decaying
limb strangled her dreams with dry
rot, made hope a withered thing.
The colour came later, much
at first, drops of iodine
swirling in a glass. One day
she woke up amber;
one more dying struggle, one
further convulsive release
and scarlet draped her shoulders.
Now one with the world’s sunsets,
her fight is no longer with
the pain that has painted her
so robust a shade. No, she
lives, dying, more alive than
ever before, breathing air
tinged gold, dreaming newer dreams,
with expectant undertones.