The Vigil
Again, she moved,
and then again.
Hardly noticeable, no more than
a micro-milimetre twitch.
Tiny, tiny flickers of the cheek,
eyelids, lips and fingers;
easy to miss unless you look hard;
and I never miss a trick
for I always look hard.
She looks as if she isn’t breathing,
but if I lean across her, lower my face to her
dry lips, slow, fractional, gossamer gasps
bearing the cold fetid stink
of rain-moistened cemetery dirt,
tickle my fine facial hairs.
Time passes neither swiftly or slow;
perhaps it ceases to pass at all,
and she and I are nothing
but figures in a photograph,
a sombre, sad snapshot,
frozen mannequins trapped
in Death’s vigil.
She stirs the starched white sheets
a little; releases a brief, distant moan
other ears would not have heard
for they are not attuned to each and every
bodily nuance as I have become.
She settles her bones into the air-filled mattress
and the loosely wound death clock continues to tick on.
My eyes never leave her for an instant.
I will be here until the harsh and bitter end.
It seems a million sunsets ago that she
was all the world to me;
and now I am all the world has left to her
to keep this deathbed vigil.
In truth I dread it’s passing
for when it is done
I will be alone
and who will there be to
hold and love me then?
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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