He will not go out again.
His bed now is his chair.
There is no need to rise
or prepare for slumber.
It comes readily,
the lids lower on the day
before a dim screen.
It was not meant to be like this,
breath searching for a way
in and out
He will not eat now.
No point – no point
He has a little tea
to moisten the lips
He listens for the swoop of a bird.It is his only visitor.
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I found it comforting, rather. A slow quiet slide. Listening for wings.
I’m thinking of my very old mother who indeed sits in her chair
waiting for that last long sleep and hoping it comes gently.
One of your great portraits of a moment, again, John. Yes, grim, but just as grim as it is. As ever your economy of word is finely balanced, I can almost hear the bird.
Yes, sorry, bit grim.
no sorrys necessary, John. Keep them coming, i can take it: i once read ‘the brothers Karamazov’ three times in a row! (i brought in on holiday with me)
aye, grim. like mark said about old gig road: you do this quite well.
good afternoon, John.
i like this poem too. There’s a little bit more comfort in this than the poem you posted this morning: tea to moisten the lips, & a winged visitor. Otherwise it’s grim.