Poetry

Four Poems

To the Hospice   Now the cupboards by your bed are empty. Having packed your gear, those who love you rub your head, hold your arm, shout encouragements through this comatose envelope that weighs on you, denying air, stifling the person who you were. So we await the ambulance; our goal: get your body from here to where it can relax its grip, certain your soul is safe and free;   and we, leaving the hospital, hear a solitary magpie call out of sight in some distant tree. Leon Trainor   Roadside Lilies for Emma Di Nardo   Alongside the…

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