(A Poem for a Sister Who Left Too Soon)

Last summer, hour after hour,
you milked the currants
from their slender stems
and stained your fingers red.
Some fell into your lap,
small round berries,
reflecting radiation
aimed hot, months before,
at the meteorite that
crashed with a silent thud,
into the epicentre
of your unsuspecting life.
Fleeting months later,
translucent light jelled
that fruit in jars, crimson
as stained glass, but
left untouched by your lips,
too weak to taste its
sweet offering of times past.
Now, day after day,
we savour those berries,
preserved, dwindling
spoonful by spoonful,
spread despondently
across the crater hole
left by the impact
of your cosmic passing.

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