In those days we kept a vigil
By his bed,
Holding his hand as he withered
On the vine, and we imagined his life
As something which, down the line, slithered
Inaudibly into the long grass, uncomplaining.
Outside, it was raining.
‘Just a few more days’, we said
‘Then there will be sunshine, no more rain.’
Was he in pain?

We never knew;
He lay still, quietly, there.
Perhaps we did not care?
But no, surely we did;
I’d like to think we did.

The ‘few more days’ turned to years,
Then decades, centuries,
And still he lay.
And still he lies
Today.