Relief # 2

The final days came hard. Mouth wide, she lay,
two strips of plaster stuck across her nose
to keep a thin green tube fixed in its place
that made her breathe less hard. The constant sound
of trickling as the oxygen was led
from wall-plug through the water in the glass,
then to the tube to reach her, and the slow
sad rhythm of her breath; a rasping run,
irregular inhaling, then a short,
soft puff that let the spent air go; again
a creeping building-up, a quick release -
all so prevailing, that quite soon they seemed
a lasting feature of the speechless room.
We sat and listened, blinked our eyes and went,
until that night when sometimes one might go
and stroll outside to fly the stifling scene
or get some tea or bread, while she held on
to dear life, gasping. All her powers went
into the gruelling act of getting breath,
of hanging on to us, not giving in
before she had entirely drained the cup
and finally allowed herself to take
her body's message, and lie back resigned.
Then all sounds stopped bar sobbing, and she lay
herself again in death, all cares away.