Letter to Self from Deathbed
A sea swells somewhere
beyond your white room.
A blood-orange sun burns low on the water
and sears the circling gulls who cut the air.
Yet this sun is on you too.
Past the skin.
It is of you: it is you.
The sharp, ridiculous pain
of needles: far away, quiet.
A deep slow pain turns you in its hands
like Mother with infant.
Close by, the sea shifts again,
the sun melts
and the gulls skim so low they seem as one
with the indigo-black of the water.
Only Mothers remain.
The Mother of Night comes.
People catch aeroplanes,
a man buys a postcard somewhere.