At the base of a hill, a grass bank, unripe daffodils poking through beckoning spring,
while curious crows hop around unkempt,
a corridor with a kind face, lights overhead taxiing towards departure?
the raindrop running down a window overhead, like a tear
images you can't place, flit through your mind, skip, pause at random,
while the clock, relentless, counts down hours, minutes, to an unknown time...
the waiting room, unawake, rows on rows of beds, sheets, unsettled disarray
save the few, clean, pristine
and in the shadows, collared, for more without a clue
The end? a new beginning? some kind of vague middle?
thoughts muddle through the semi-conscious chains of command
to a general, lounging back, cigar in mouth, whiskey in hand, triple distilled,
"You'll be fine, just count to ten, nine..." a soft laugh, echoes
and, as I close the door, peace at last.