<-- Poetry/Literature Excerpts
Al Purdy: Poem
You are ill and so I lead you away
and put you to bed in the dark room
— you lie breathing softly and I hold your hand
feeling the fingertips relax as sleep comes
You will not sleep more than a few hours
and the illness is less serious than my anger or cruelty
and the dark bedroom is like a foretaste of other darknesses
to come later which all of us must endure alone
but here I am permitted to be with you
After a while in sleep your fingers clutch tightly
and I know that whatever may be happening
the fear coiled in dreams for the bright trespass of pain
there is nothing at all I can do except hold your hand
and not go away
<-- Poetry/Literature Excerpts