This seems appropriate as my old Mum is now on palliative care at the end of her journey.
Dying is a long thing,
a million bright moments carefully collected like stamps,
pressed between powdery pages,
an uncurared gospel of fragments.
Interpretation comes only
with the final part.
For now, we hold skinny hands in this waiting room.
The mattress pump purrs.
I witness every flicker of her alabaster face,
and dream of returning to memories of days with heart,
knowing that this book must close
and another life for each must start
with her repose.