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It is fitting that Edwin Morgan's death happened quietly this week, as the Edinburgh International Book Festival was in full swing.

He was one of a number of great writers who took part in that famous writers' conference of 1962, which set in motion the book festival of today.

It's hard to imagine a poet with such a grip on our nation - aside from that other great people's poet, Robert Burns.

Glasgow's first poet laureate, his work was the subject of a 24-hour poetry marathon in the city and it wasn't hard to find people on their way to work, already with a favourite poem in their head.

But he was an innovator too.

His command of the English language was enhanced by his knowledge of other languages.

As well as his own work, he was responsible for introducing many non-English speaking poets through countless translations.

He had a command of Latin, Greek, Italian, French, German, Italian, Russian, Anglo-Saxon, and Hungarian but even if he encountered a poem in a language he didn't know, he'd immerse himself in it until he was able to understand.

There was barely a poetic form he didn't try, from the complex sound poetry of the Song of the Loch Ness monster to his Glasgow sonnets.

There was certainly no subject left untouched from love and loss and simple pleasures to singing monsters and speaking Martian.

When he was diagnosed with cancer seven years ago, he was already the author of an outstanding canon of work.

Apparently his doctor advised that he could have six months or six years and he piped back "can I have the six years please?".

From his Glasgow nursing home, he used those six years or more to add to his extraordinary archive, not least in Gorgon and Beau, the poem he composed about the battle between the cancer cells ravaging his body.

I had the honour of meeting him many times, both as a journalist and as a student of Scottish literature at Glasgow University in the mid 80s.

He'd recently retired but often returned to the classroom to encourage a new generation to write and read the literature of our nation.

His legacy is all around, from his desk and chair and archive in the Scottish Poetry Library (which he helped found) to the prize in his name awarded only this week to AB Jackson.

And of course, in his own words which still inspire, entertain and illuminate.

Here's one of my favourites:

STRAWBERRIES
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
(Poem reproduced from Edwin Morgan's Collected Poems with permission from publishers Carcanet Press)