Gillie Bolton

Mug of brown tea, big for cradling
hands and cheek. His tea always
bubbled swirling round and around.

Pull my dressing gown close
against the night which can't get in,
cuddled by the stove.

Listen. The creak of the stair. He's coming
with toothpaste and tobacco breath
to comfort, red dressing gown trailing.

The bubbles have gone
from tepid dregs
no need for a gypsy to read them.

Shiver in his cold crimson dressing gown
too big and too prickly, there's
only the smell of the dark of silence.

Gillie Bolton
Progress in Palliative Care . 1997 5 (1)