The Wednesday Poem

Listening Margaret Ferrell

The scene is white –
snowdrops by the bed, their green spears of
leaves one small flash of colour against
bed linen and walls.

He lies in quiet, comatose,
as I sit at his bedside listening to sounds of pain
in a ward of the dying.

I crave communication from a man seldom still,
hands ever busy. We rarely talk of what
matters.

I hear the clock ticking, listen again to coughs
and wheezes beyond the curtains, then find
myself focusing on him until sound evaporates.

Words then flow. Can he hear me? I stop to listen
for any small sound. Only silence.
We knew too little harmony in our past so I speak
my thoughts of that time.
Is he listening?

I remind him how similar we are – the reason there
is friction. I talk about his strengths too and his acts
of kindness.

My gaze shifts to the snowdrops, their white flowers
inclining towards the bed. Then perhaps seeking some
small response, I turn to him again to see a tear forming
at the corner of his eye. He leaves me.

Margaret Ferrell loves language and the whole process of creative writing. Her poetry and prose have been published in various anthologies and journals. She finds inspiration in literary fiction, art, music, nature, her Scottish roots and life.