When COVID lockdown loomed back in 2020, many people panic-bought toilet rolls – but I stocked up on notebooks and my favourite pencils.

I had been inspired by the writing of Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. In Letters to a Young Poet (1929), a collection of ten letters written to a young military cadet who had sent his poetry to Rilke for critique, Rilke advised: “Confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write?”

In a BBC radio programme, The Essay: Letters to a Young Poet, first broadcast in 2014, the English poet Vicki Feaver responded to Rilke’s question. She said: “Of course I wouldn’t literally die, but a part of me would die, as it did in the years when I didn’t write.”

My husband, Arthur Gardner, who died of motor neurone disease in 2008, would have identified with this. He started reading and writing poetry in his early 20s and his enthusiasm and ambition increased as he grew older.

During his last few months, he had lost the use of his arms and hands and was dependent on a machine that pushed air into his lungs. Nevertheless, he used every possible opportunity to work on his poems, particularly looking forward to the weekly visit of a sensitive and sympathetic Marie Curie nurse who would patiently scribe for him.

Feaver had wanted to be a poet since reading the work of

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