A week ago, someone posted Dylan Thomas's poem, "Do not go gentle", and I found this bursting out from a year of loss. It was a year since we scattered my mother's ashes. It would not have been appropriate to send this then. Today is the second of her birthdays when she is not with us.

I have a major argument with Dylan's verse. I used to hear that poem, and think it powerful, and something to be admired and emulated. Not any more. The nurses in the hospital thought it wrong, too. They had seen too many fighters raging against the dying of the light to wish them not to go gently. I felt then that if anyone were to mention that poem to me again, I would do something less than pacifist to them. This is what came instead.

To me, who saw my mother dying, Dylan was wrong.
She did not go gentle, did not surrender, she fought on.
She stayed on past her time, all pain, dignity gone,
Begging with desperate eyes for the welcome dark
That is the door to light.
Do not go gentle when the body seeks to heal, is strong,
Do not go gentle when the will to live's not done,
Rage, yes, when life's there still, when battle can be won,
But when there's nothing left but torture stark,
Best to give up the fight.
The nurses said "She's a fighter, tough, won't easily yield life."
At first admiring, then in sorrow "that's not always best,"
As diamorphine dripping slowly brought no rest,
As every loving touch brought agonising pain,
And there was no release.
So I will rage, hearing that poem's anguished cry for strife,
Rage, rage, when Dylan's call for suffering is raised.
Will not go gently quiet when vain fortitude is praised.
And hope for gentle friendship when death comes again,
Bringing for torture, peace.

Penny