A night nurse's notes at St. Vincent's Hospital, New York City, 1953
Some Welsh bard lies in a state,Brought in collapsed after
Toasting his small gods
In a downtown joint;
Comatose, he cannot speak,
But he can still dream and
See his way back to
The spiritual sites he
Daubed with God-given graffiti:
Swansea,
Chelsea,
Oxford,
Laugharne,
He is lying on his back,
Dressed in druidic white,
His shuttered eyes light
The vaulted room;
His body drinks the drips,
He is leaving for his last journey,
Raising his final overflowing grail
In a circle of stoned friends.
He is gone.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 837 times
Written on 2019-09-06 at 13:51
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