Visiting Hours

Frost-rimed window, no sounds

But the soft whirring and whoosh

Of the ventilator, and suddenly

I'm standing not by the raised rails

Of her bed but the pasture fence,

Lifting a fragile film of frost-ice

From the water trough, the sun

Already melting the overnight dust

Of snow into the oozy clay where

The mare has worn the grass away;

The soft sucking sounds as she lifts

Each hoof and carefully puts it down

Again, not quite moving nor staying,

The pale plumes of each breath softly

Lifting and falling in the quiet clear air;

My hand cold on the snow-white sheet.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 581 times
Written on 2011-09-26 at 18:19

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I'm not going to say anything else. You've written this perfectly, Fog.
2011-10-01


Neelima
Yeah...I remember the time when I was in the hospital...well picturised with words!
2011-09-28


Stephen Jay
A very great piece.

To look back at th vivid memories of the past and not dwell on today's pain.
2011-09-27


shells
This reads so softly, the clever transition from hospital bed to the outdoor observations and sounds are beautiful in their fragility.
2011-09-27


Nils Teodor The PoetBay support member heart!
Beautiful
2011-09-26