Visit to a Clergyman

Pausing at the door,

I ponder my warning:

He won't recognize you

As the reluctant nurse,

This summer morning,

Grips the door-knob,

Ushers me through.

A figure on a bed,

The skull turned sideways, Hello.

You are privileged you know -

He speaks the language

Of a man I knew

Some years ago.

Eyes stray to the window,

Then to my face:

What are you doing now?

I wonder why he asks. His mind

Assumes the daily tasks

Of a world he leaves behind.

I admire his tired tenacity,

The strong grip still

On a principle -

Perhaps the kindest thing I've said

Of the clergyman

Who will soon be dead.

They are lovely Nurse Green.

Roses enter the room. It is ...?

He verifies his faculties remain.

The nurse, less tender than her anme,

Stuffs the flowers in an empty vase,

Ignores a fallen bloom.

I don't know what's wrong with me,

He props a lolling head

On a long bone. I'm do tired

Getting old. Sixty you know,

For a time nothing is said.

Too tired for thought?

To think that life will cease?

Between him and a garden,

Out of sight, a cross stands out

Against the light. Breath

Dwindles in the swollen trunk.

Growth feeling on decrease.

There was no point in staying

Goodbye. Be sure to let me know...

I turned to go,

Aware I was in his debit

For the gift of a flicker

Of the life he had left.

©Terry Hodgson2025