Bent over bedside fearfully, incredulously

in the long dark deathwatches of a hot night

holding his hand beside a good son.

Gnawed by uncertainty and anxiety

straining and listening for that barely perceptible

last tiny  invisible wisp of life,

ever more laboured and fainter, difficult to discern

until it finally ceased as he peacefully slipped away

while the nightingale sang still.

 

Hope forgiving kind arms are open, waiting

as the key turns in the gate lock.