At the base of a hill, a grass bank
unripe daffodils poking through
beckoning spring, while curious crows
hop around unkempt, a corridor
with a kind face, lights overhead
taxiing towards departure?
the raindrop running down
window overhead, like a tear
images you can’t place,
flit through your mind
skip, pause at random, while
the clock, relentless, counts down
hours, minutes, to an unknown time...
The waiting room, unawake
rows on rows of beds, sheets
unsettled disarray
save the few, clean, pristine
and in the shadows, collared,
for more without a clue
The end? a new beginning?
, some kind of vague middle? thoughts
muddle through the semi-conscious
chains of command to a general,
lounging back, cigar in mouth,
whiskey in hand, triple distilled,
“You’ll be fine, just count to ten,
nine...”
a soft laugh, echoes
and, as I close the door
peace at last.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 2:46 AM UTC
At the base of a hill, a grass bank
unripe daffodils poking through
beckoning spring, while curious crows
hop around unkempt, a corridor
with a kind face, lights overhead
taxiing towards departure?
the raindrop running down
window overhead, like a tear
images you can’t place,
flit through your mind
skip, pause at random, while
the clock, relentless, counts down
hours, minutes, to an unknown time...
The waiting room, unawake
rows on rows of beds, sheets
unsettled disarray
save the few, clean, pristine
and in the shadows, collared,
for more without a clue
The end? a new beginning?
, some kind of vague middle? thoughts
muddle through the semi-conscious
chains of command to a general,
lounging back, cigar in mouth,
whiskey in hand, triple distilled,
“You’ll be fine, just count to ten,
nine...”
a soft laugh, echoes
and, as I close the door
peace at last.
Yes, another poem about death! When I first started writing poetry practically every poem I wrote was about popping off in one form or another, but this has the dubious honour of being my favourite. The first stanza is about coming into the hospital, the daffodils still waiting to bloom outside the hospital indicating the time of year, just before spring (new birth), then being wheeled along the corridor, looking up at the lights overhead 'taxiing towards departure' a bit like an airplane about to take off. The single raindrop running down the window over the top of the operating table, I always think it's funny how we can focus on the completely irrelevant details at really important times of our lives. Stanza 2, 'The waiting room' is the post op recovery room, following the general anaesthetic, and I've used a little bit of artistic licence by putting a priest ('shadows, collared') in the corner of the room. The last stanza deals with that fine line between life and death, memories going through the mind like flicking through photos on your phone, remembering at the end the words of the ('general') anaesthetist as he counts down from ten, to make sure the patient is asleep, a sleep they may never wake up from.