last offices

Cherry

By alexwritings

Thu, 01 Dec 2016
  • 977 reads
1 comments
 

 

We park
by the craft shop:
the coloured corners of picture frames
hang down the wall
like chevrons
 
Supine, under the quilt of night
the infirmery 
glows like a nuclear power station:
slit-thin windows,
slatted doors
 
with code-protected handles
that veil up
a dirgey insomnia of whirring.
 
Inside, our heads are bedside trinket boxes -
each memory of him jangles crisply
against the next
like wind chimes in a lonely, wet garden.
 
His face is sugar-mouse white,
 
cancer’s victory
rinded deep down laughter lines.
 
What have we become to him?
Does he see us as if from a plane,
surging over the land
 
looking down at us among the silver rivers
that glisten down valleys
like mercury?
Or are we here with him right now?
No, it’s too much
 
all this. A degree in English Literature
is no help at all.
We leave holding the Doctor’s scrawl
as the sun lifts up
over the hills.
 
Back at the car,
the coloured picture frames
are catching the early morning light.
They are pointing:
up, up, up.
Certificate U
Poem
With the odd rumble of thunder
Surreal
Other Fiction

Comments

Submitted by celticman on

it's no help being able to see when you've got to feel your way. Nice one.