Watching by Stuart MacFarlane

                WATCHING
               
                    I

The nurse says quietly, efficiently.
'I'm sorry but you can't disturb the chairs.'
So we push them back,
a tentative scraping;
now, regimented at the bedside,
we form a silent circle around
a patient centre.
We talk a little, laugh when we can.
The air is hot and stuffy;
and always the pungent tang of disinfectant.
In the adjacent bed lies an older man,
tubes snaking from his body to a 'Life trace' machine.
At his side his wife holds his hand;
and, as he tries to speak,
she says softly, again and again,
'I know. I know.'
His hand, in hers, struggles to squeeze
out a response.
On the screen a white line
scales small mountain peaks.
Up, down. Up and down.
Random numbers flash erratically.
       
                II

We hear a rasping cough.
See the old man's arm swing through the air,
describing a careless arc.
His hand thumps off the bedside table,
upsetting a vase of flowers.
Slowly, very slowly, the vase tips
over the edge, sudden water
leaping at the brim.
One by one, the flowers,
daffodils, I think,
spill out.
     
                    III

Now the glass vase turns through the air,
scooping up the sunlight,
bright water gasping at the neck.
Someone moves, as if to catch it.
But no-one does.
It smashes on the hard, scrubbed floor,
scattering into a hundred pieces.
Fingers of sunlight seem to pick
at the pieces;
nimble beams on
gleaming glass.
The flowers' flaccid stems lie,
forlorn there, on the floor;
and, helpless, we can merely look on;
just watching the water spread.