Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2009

Palliative Care

by David Holloway

I can see your chest,
and the grey hairs that flexed,
building this room.  

Now the room flexes,
to absorb your failing,
falling life  

I talk of the town,
within easy sight,
but hospital distant.  

Children walking home,
sling backpacks with ease,
snacking on youth.  

Your last supper,
is the story you built,
Dad with dusty hands.  

You talk of anything,
before the last year,
when the moldering cells,
didn’t have your ear.  

Sphygmos and medications,
can’t represent the failing of life,
as well as the frantic face,
of a watching wife.

Added: 19.12.2008