It's snowing‭;
I can see it‭
through‭
the ward window,‭

drifting slow‭
and filling‭
the branches‭
of the trees,

and out there‭
in the fields about.‭
It looks surreal,‭
like it is being painted‭

as I watch.‭
Glad we're in here,‭
not out there in it,‭
Yiska says,‭

moving next to me‭
at the window.‭  
I can smell her perfume‭
or is it soap‭?

It has a kind‭
of fascination,‭
I say,‭
trying to imagine soldiers‭

on the Russian Front‭
knee deep‭
in to snow,‭
fingers freezing‭

to rifles,‭
feet so cold‭
they freeze off.‭
She says nothing‭;

looks at the fall of snow.‭
You have imagination,‭
I’ll give you that,‭
she says after a few minutes.‭

Some days I want‭
to just lie there‭
and become numb‭
in snow.‭

I read some place‭
soldiers froze‭
where they stood‭
like statues,‭

dead and white,‭
I add,‭ ‬looking at her‭
beside me,‭ ‬her hair‭
unbrushed,‭ ‬her pale‭

blue nightgown‭
hanging loose,‭
no belts or ties‭
allowed‭( ‬suicides‭

always possible‭)‬,‭
her eyes staring‭
outward.‭
If I could get out‭

of this locked ward,‭
I’d be out there,‭
looking for a place‭
to just lie,‭ ‬and go‭

to sleep,‭ ‬she says.‭
I imagine us both‭
laying there out‭
in the falling snow,‭

cold,‭ ‬freezing‭
waiting to go.

O the rain yesterday
Miriam says
didn't it come down?
I thought once

in San Sabastian
all would be well
and then it poured
I sit next to her

in the camp cafe
others from the coach
were there
some looked fed up

with the weather
I know
the guide said to me
and the ex-army guy

there's your tent
down in the field
and it was pouring
down with rain

and we could hardly see
and the ex-army guy
says to me  
what the heck

I thought
by coming here
I'd get away
from manoeuvres

what's he like?
she asks
he's ok I guess
I say

bet you wish
it was me
in your tent?
she says

be a bit crowded
three of us
not with him
just me and you

o sure
that'd go down
a bundle with him
and others

I say
but I like to think
it was possible
especially as

the ex-army guy
kept me awake
a good part
of the night

moaning about
his mother's
new boyfriend
and how he gets

on his nerves
and how the army
was once his life
anyway maybe later

we can
she says
I nod
and think of her

on the journey
down from Paris
on the coach
her next to me

the dim lights
on the coach
through the Parisian night
us kissing

and such
doing all right.

I guess my grief
is like an open wound.
It seems never
to heal over,

my son,
seeping all
over my soul
with its hurt and pain,

as if all
was happening
over again.
Five days forever branded

in my mind and heart:
Thursday to Monday,
haunts and repeats
the images and events

and the ward
and the waiting
and you
-you so patient,

-so stoic-
I wondering
if this circus of care
will lead anywhere.

Your final breath,
then death,
and an ever repeating
Monday of the same

soaks in
my heart and mind.
How are things,
on that side

of the curtain?
Do you visit
when you can?
I guess you do

-you my stoic son,
being there,
watching, seeking
to make me

hear or see,
that you are fine
and all is
as it's seems

must be.
An open wound
my grief,
the ache seeps

in soul's span,
you my son,
my stoic man.

Sophia leans over
the fresh made bed
of old Tom
and says to me

film on at cinema
(she's Polish
and her
English's broken)

is there now
I reply
folding neat
the old boy's clothes

it good film
I put away the clothes
in the top drawer
of the chest of drawers

you take me?
why would I do that?
it good film
after we go back

to my home for coffee
you want me
to meet your parents?
no they out

at some ex army thing
my Tatus was in War
over here
she says

I stare out the window
of Tom's room
not sure
I can make it

I say
maybe we could
be having **** after?
she suggests

the sky is off grey
the clouds are heavy
the grass below
is bright green

don't need ***
I reply
just a film
I look at her

standing there
blonde hair tied
in a ponytail
eyes bright

as new stars
you go?
she asks
dare I say no?

I muse thinking
of the times
she's nearly
seduced me

on the beds
in this old folks home
me a nurse
she a cleaner

a seductive one
at that
sure
I say

looking away
making sure
all the jobs are done
in Tom's room

so I can leave
she smiles
it be good have
coffee after

I nod
and down the hall outside
there's an old boy's
rattly laughter.

Did you go
to Vegas
after all?

Does the Spirit World
permit such?

I hope you go
if you've not been
and are allowed,
my son;
there ghostly
amongst the gamblers
who have lost or won.

I think of you
good part
of my time,
or suddenly
out of the blue,
something
some tune or photo
brings to mind, you.

I used to be ignorant
of grief's ache,
the hurt loss brings,
but not anymore,
not since you've
been gone.

You gone,
just like that,
no big farewells,
just the final words
vague now
and possibly banal
as most
in real life are,
like faded lights
of a burnt out star.

What have you got there?
Record, LP.

Nima looks at me.
Which one?

Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.

She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.

Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.

We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.

*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.

I can give you
a smoke.

She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.

I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.

She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.

How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few  minutes
of silence.

Non-existent.

Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.  

I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.

Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.

How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.

The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.

And is it working?

Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.

What about a drink?

Not allowed.

Coffee?

You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger  
and you're on.

I nod my head.

We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.

If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.

Sure, if you like.

And they'll look at you
suspiciously.

Why?

They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.

We did.

I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.

I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.

Some days
it seems
so unreal-

your demise-

as if it
hadn't happened
at all,

was just some
weird dream
that repeats
night after night

and that when
you awake
every thing's all right;

but it's no dream-
a nightmare maybe-

because it's real-
your demise-

I saw it all
before my eyes

my son-

the bright lights
within you

going out
one by one.