as if a squinting eye staring at me.
The small Welsh flag remains in the window sill
although the tournament is long since over
and the car in the drive she’ll never use again
as I wander past on a sunny summer evening,
such a stark contrast to the darkened room
which has the look of death, the reek of doom.
Can it really be only a few months ago
we talked of Tchaikovsky and other concerts
as she strode up the street with joy?
But everything is transient and uncertain
and so petty woes I now let melt away
like morning dew when the sun rises.
My vulture eyes peer in the darkened room,
there is no movement, it’s quiet as a tomb.
I do not believe she’ll return again
wondering if the hospital will test her faith
or perhaps she’s beyond cognitive thoughts
lying in the ghastly light of the isolation ward.
I feel sorrow but we are selfish
a reminder of my own mortality.
Does her ghost drift across the darkened room
under the stars and the indifferent moon?