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Paralysed
Dust falls like exhaled flakes,
turning in sun-rays,
the gentle gyre of time, pulled out like a twisted grip of wire.
She awakes.
Spidered grey eyes call to the transparent day.
Her folded skin on sallow frame bones,
soft like pillows of warm cream snow.
A slow gulped blink,
to sigh and say.
Beyond the smooth-lick glass of the hospice,
through the pane,
ankle low over the summer lawn,
grass smells, limp flower heads,
and up around the children's run,
high, to blue fresh sky,
and ice wet needle clouds that taste of the sea and pure mountain glacier oxygen;
here she is free.
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