The bed, rearranged, so she can see the hills

through the square bay window.

By mid afternoon, grey clouds swirl, nudged by an east wind.

It's been a week; a week of willing, praying, tending, loving.

Who can tell when the spirit has gone?

Whipped away on the winter air

leaving morphined eyes in a worn out body.

Is now the time? To be pushed from life,

hauled into heaven by long-limbed angels.

This harrowing half-life, this limbo for both.

The one who has willed her to live, now longs for her death.

Unwilling, she releases her hold.

Early snowdrops in a pink, chipped jug

lower their heads in respect

(inspired by 'fur Alina' by Arvo Part)