On the death of Yvonne de Carlo (1922-2007)
Why should no sonnet now be penned for you?
Is there no poet to extol that fame,
At once five decades old and daily new?
No torches to be kindled at your flame?
Time is, Time was, the cinematic art
Makes one. Ten years ago or yesterday,
It matters nothing when the credits start.
Your image brightens up the longest day.
Tonight we watch Sephora's quiet grace,
The next with Yasmin's gaiety you dance.
Whatever age, whatever role, your face
Lives now, Time's logic being held in trance.
Upon the screen your loveliness will live
Beyond the touch of death to negative.
Page(s) 26
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