Feelings

I ought to care that Margaret Thatcher died
Because I follow all the chattering
That tends to talk of all that she implied.
But somehow I can't see her passing mattering
Except to those she loved, and who loved her
For whom it must be pain, despite her age
Which we should not forget. I wish it were
Truly momentous when we turn the page
On lives that are significant, but I
Cannot repress the feeling that, in truth,
The deaths that matter do not often die
At full extension, but instead in youth
Or middle age, or late, but by surprise
Not quietly in a hotel high-rise.