Towards the end of the year
The sky is moulded of steel and bronze,
Dull clouds hang heavy –an inverted bowl
That presses down on a world
Drained of colour, except for evergreens
That mock the grey hospital walls.
And within, the hum of machines monitoring,
Ceaselessly reducing to numbers and waves,
Channelled through wires, through needles in veins,
The ineffable mystery of life,
Checked by a hurried nurse, by a doctor
Tutting through his teeth at the lack of progress.
The day almost over, the air opaque,
The sky opens at the edge, clouds part
To fling out a last vermillion ray
That flares off windows and evergreen leaves,
Until, too garish to bear itself, the eye closes,
Letting the world sink into restful dark.