The Mummerís Show
In between stories the family falls silent
And stares at the bed.
The dead man wonít stop breathing.
His lungs creak and gurgle like the hull of a sinking ship
His clotted throat fills the room with oceanic clicks.
White foam builds up and begins to stream from his nose.
Amber glass eyes dart in between ceiling corners.
He has shrunk, skin browned
Until only a mummerís show
Of the Lindow Man remains.
A tiny leather man in a hospice bed.
His family touches his cold orange hand
Because that is what they do in the films.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Cat Wright would be
pleased to hear them.