The morning cleaners at the hospice want us gone, There’s much to do today, bodies get in the way.
An obituarist waits in each of us to write away the passing of a friend. These uniforms are much dismayed at our extended stay; your bed is wanted for a modern casualty. He’s on his way.
Beyond the bright bleak panes extends the mud, the saltings and the quay at which there is a black and nameless liner unmooring, turning in a fan of spray, busy too, getting under way.
And you roll over, dragging the catheter, a rasp in your throats tatter signals all the farewell you need to say.
Roy Ashwell
