I am poised above you:
one foot on the horn
of a crescent moon.
Arms outstretched.
My right hand holds
the murmuration that
celebrates the sky
outside the window.
My left hand holds
the choral voices
that flow from the
radio in the corner.
Every blessing
you ever gave me
surrounds my head
as a crown of stars.
There is a fine thread
strung between us
that I hold
between my teeth.
Below me you lie. Dying.
Your hospital bed awash
with poppies, buttercups
and sweet meadow grasses.
(c) Kate Gold 2020
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