Hospice

Those automatic glass doors,
a thin veneer
reflecting the beauty
of grass and gardens,
suddenly cracking to
scrubbed sterility.
Results a hammer blow,
shunting friends and family
to visit, and even
Christmas seven weeks early.
The medication taking pain
but also precious hours;
and your world
constantly shrinking:
corridor,
ward,
bed,
is,
was.

Chris Major

If you've any comment on this poem, Chris Major would be pleased to hear from you.