There’s a lot of death around at the moment, one way or another. I was commenting on this to a friend yesterday and he said, Yes but in the fourteenth century you could go on a trip and come back to find your whole family dead. This is undoubtedly true but even though I am in theory entirely reconciled to the fact that we must all die, theory and experience are miles apart. It’s not until it happens that you know what it means. So here’s a flower for all those who’ve lost someone they love.
I started my first novel, aged 8, in a draughty vicarage, finishing it 14 years later. My first poem emerged on a Sussex beach in 1965, but I didn’t return to poetry until 2007: I’m still trying to find out why.
I have published short stories, poems and reviews and am a recognised performance poet. I’ve been married 21 years and have two children, Holly, 20 and Daniel, 17; but my husband now wants to be known as female. My struggles with this and its effects on my writing, are the springboard for short stories and a radio play.
View all posts by Sarada Gray
Sarada Gray 
Lovely thought. Cheers, Jon.
Thanks