A poem written while on codeine.
Mr Tourniquet in cubicle 6 watches the birds from his window.
His environs are faded yellow and blue; his soundtrack a series of beeps.
They bring him tablets and jugs of water; they take his order for lunch.
He pretends he’s not seeing, hearing and smelling, but has nothing with him to do.
Gulls swoop over, looking for scraps and rifling through the bins.
Drizzle, the death-throws of the clouds, feeds the moss and the mould
that runs down the side of a taupe brick building, making the new seem old.
Mr Tourniquet lies in his bed, his fate unclear, and hides
under thin blankets in cubicle 6, and cries and smiles and sighs.
#poem #codeine #offthecuff #hospital
Morwenna Blackwood, Author 