Mary was a poet;
her words beautiful
her grammar impeccable
her grasp of the lexicon
far beyond my simple ramblings

Mary was a writer;
her flow omnipresent
her imagery transports the soul
her understanding of the reader
far beyond my comprehension

Mary taught me
how to express myself
the meaning of a nom de plume;
I didn't need to be
just a boy with
ideas above his station

Mary was a 40-something woman
previously married with grown up kids
living on a Western Isle
with a pet donkey called Samson

For 20 years I walked with Mary's shadow
she made me proud and kept our secrets safe
I remember the poem she wrote
about a coffee and a one night stand
evoked images of two women in a passionate embrace;
it won some award she never collected

Mary had cheques for her published works
filled a pencil case in a box in the attic
her moments in the spotlight gathering dust
citing Maya Angelou as her inspiration
and Ben Okri as a man she'd like to cook for

Mary inspired me;
she was a writer and a poet don't you know
taught me the meaning of a nom de plume
sad was the day I laid her to rest
buried with her cheques in the pencil case
gathering dust in the attic

This is her epitaph:
wherever there is soul
all is not lost,
and what is not lost
is never forgotten.