The nurses are coming

 

                            

                                    2.55 p.m. and a swing door opens

                                    and five nurses in dark blue

 

                                    mid-calf-length slacks and V-necked

                                    tops adorned with silver watches

 

                                    each with a chart in her hand

                                    detailing the last vital recordings

 

                                    the progression of signs which they

                                    assess at a glance. In Room 5

 

                                    all but one line is being taken out

                                    and the morphine is two-hourly.

 

                                     A head sinks into a little folded towel

                                    deep in a pillow, like a snow angel

 

                                    and the nurses walk, bunched together

                                    down the polished linoleum, past

 

                                    the open doors of the dire, not looking

                                    yet, just walking, just coming on

 

                                    the way stars come out, flicker

                                    and gleam: We are here, we are arriving.

 

                                                            © Elizabeth Smither