The Christie

Poetry

Photo by Mufid Majnun on Unsplash

Near is very far
Space, time,
Dark star.

Black hole
Wandering soul.

Still
there’s a vastness that appalls
chemotherapy,
white walls.

Scurrying through
the corridors
of the Christie, this Monday morning
early,
meeting Emile,
yes, it has spread,
he fears he’ll soon be dead.
His Caribbean lilt
still
echoes in my head.

We smile and laugh and joke with the nurses
as they try searching for a vein
in vain.

What else can you do?
Blue’s still
the colour of blue.