10 SEPTEMBER 2005, Page 35

Waiting

How many more farewells?

A brittle fan of bones, Once your hand, Waves across your face Like a metronome slowing down.

The one good eye, still aquamarine As a Turkish sea, Cannot, thank God, see what You’ve become.

Your greeting, for years so Loud and full of declarations, Is no more than a smudged, silent Kiss on my hand.

Then you sleep again.

You don’t remember how You scoffed at old infirmity, And never guessed in all The years you entertained How long it takes to die.

Augusta Skye