In light that lingers when light has gone
the clock on the wall
shows hands that seem to stop or crawl.
The windows of the hospital
reflect a lunar calm.

Nightsmoke from the boiler-house
swirls in muted agitation.
In a corner of the ward
geraniums bloom, the only sign
of a life not thwarted by lassitude.

Pale on the pillow
– lips like parchment, eyes half-open –
the sick child wakes after falling
through the deepness of space.

At midnight, when the youngest face
wears the oldest expression,
the dark is perfect, it paints
the pink roses black.