Night Shift
(for those who wait with the dying)
I want to hold back Death:
Impossible of course,
But every time I try,
Standing in the way,
Arms outstretched
As if to halt
A bolting horse,
It passes through
As if I, not it,
Were insubstantial mist.
And I feel a touch
Across my face
Of trailing cobwebs
Or frosted feathers
Stiff with ice.