CLIVE James, the Australian-born author, broadcaster, and translator, may have been originally celebrated for his witty, subversive, television and broadcasting work, but his reputation as a serious and accomplished poet is now widely acknowledged.

In his new collection, Sentenced to Life (Picador Poetry, £14.99), he reflects with candour, ruefulness, and resilient resignation on his own mortality. Here is a sample of this impressive book.

SPRING SNOW DANCER

Snow into April. Frost night after night.

Out on the Welsh farms the lambs die unborn.

The chill air hurts my lungs, but from the light

It could be spring. Bitter as it is bright,

The last trick of the cold is a false dawn.

I breathed, grew up, and now I learn to be

Glad for my long life as it melts away,

Yet still regales me with so much to see

Of how we live in continuity

And die in it. Take what I saw today:

My granddaughter, as quick as I could glance,

Did ballet steps across the kitchen floor,

And this time I was breathless at the chance

By which I'd lived to see our dear lamb dance -

Though soon I will not see her any more.