Something about a satellite

Something about a satellite

A Poem by Terpsichore

Every day during that never-ending week ,
I made the journey to the hospital.
To sit in hopeful silence at your bed,
hold your hand and watch you sleeping.
We organised a kind of rota
so you wouldn't be alone.
Locked the doors
and drew the curtains closed
back at your empty, lonely home.


We brought the outside world to you
in the form of small-talk
and petrol station flowers.
Sad tears spilled out
and marked the passing minutes,
just like the falling petals that
marked your dwindling hours;
I hoped you understood
how loved you were
and that we cried for a lifetime
of blur-edged memories,
through the pain
of seeing you lying there.


We gathered round you then,
in the lengthening shadows
of that winter afternoon,
as you became stilled
amongst the soft sound
of Nightingale footfalls,
and the muted beep of
your life support machine.
We said goodbye
in dusk-kissed silence
as you slipped away
from what had been.


Later on , I went to Taz's house.
He played his guitar
and sang a Snow Patrol song,
it was something about a satellite.
We brewed tea
and talked about the good times,
deep into the lonely night.
I knew I would miss you terribly;
not now,
but when the flowers bloomed
and I remembered the summertime
glinting in your dying eyes.




© 2015 Terpsichore



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Gee
I remember the first time I read this. Mum was seriously ill and I was travelling to and from the hospital daily, so it struck a deep chord. Happily mum's a lot better, actually enjoying life at the moment, and hopefully will grab a few more years before being carted off by the grim fella.
In all of my time on here, this is still, and probably will always be, my favourite poem . For that T I thank you. Cheers

Posted 1 Year Ago


This is a very immediate and superbly written insight into the heart of human existence. It is all the better for being direct and not overdone.
We should all be able to connect with this.
Regards,
Alan

Posted 1 Year Ago


my goodness, what words can do, so that you pull on the sharing heart, across mountains and deserts, across the staccato of time, and the place in us that feels, resonates...

Posted 1 Year Ago


You've done it, my friend. You've told a tale so many of us have lived through, and done it with heaps and mounds of tenderness and love. Truly, this poem is powerful and special.

Posted 1 Year Ago


you're such a fabulous writer Terpsichore..using your particular needlework to stitch the least of
our difficult times to most of the hours, minutes we have left. And by means is the treatment of
emotionalism easy to write about. It only works best when you can put yourself at the bedside
of a loved one as the few remaining petrels of their life fall off. I've been at that bedside and it
hurts because every known farewell that you encounter in life, hurts.

this is different for you. I suspect that it was real if a good writer who seldom writes about such
a subject, writes about such a subject. Yet amazing nonetheless........dana

Posted 1 Year Ago


Very painful. Exquisite in its execution, but painful. It's to the writers credit, regardless of theme, to have the ability to transport the reader to that scene represented successfully. This has that in spades. It is our best work when there is an emotional element to drive us. Very good. CD

Posted 1 Year Ago


Lovely adjectives behold this sad story

Posted 1 Year Ago


This whilst quite personal is for everyone who has been there.

Posted 1 Year Ago


Sad... beautifully sad... so well done... bravo!!

Posted 1 Year Ago


thank you for sharing this write with us...it touches the heart, and obviously concerns someone you are going to miss so much---even when the flowers aren't blooming.

Posted 1 Year Ago



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Added on November 29, 2015
Last Updated on November 30, 2015

Author

Terpsichore
Terpsichore

London, United Kingdom



About
Nothing much to tell really. I work in the city, boring, but lucrative enough to enable me to spend most weekends away from the place. I enjoy writing, reading equally as much. Like retro style cloth.. more..

Writing

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