Sunday 3.00pm Poem by David Gibbs

A mother lays upon the bed,
Her daughter cradles her sweet head,
A son leans across to clasp her hand,
The other held by her husband,
A yard away, knelt on the floor,
A daughter-in-law cries some more,
The mothers mother is in the hall,
Can't find the strength to face it all,
To stare into the face of death,
To see her daughters final breath.

Me, I stand behind my wife,
Who's still knelt praying for my mums life,
For me, there's no feeling, nothing at all,
I'm somehow detached from it all,
Her breathing's slower now, so slow,
The rattle in her throat seems to go,
Her face is wet from her daughters tears,
End of a life after forty five years.
Her body is still, a lifeless shell,
She goes to heaven, we stay in hell.

If on a journey through my mind,
In every room this picture find,
In every corner of my head,
This painting of my mother, dead.
In oils, on canvas and a big oak frame,
It wasn't my purchase, Cancer's to blame.