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Poetry
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| Thanks, Edgar | |
| By MikeMorris | ||||
| 11 August 2006 | ||||
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His sleep had been deep and restful. He awoke in the still, dark night. All traces of fever had left him And soon it would be light. He felt warm and drowsy and happy, Glad to be free of the pain Which had wracked his head and back and neck In whatever position he’d lain. Someone had changed his night shirt, This one was clean and dry. Not wringing wet with the clammy sweat That had soaked him in nights gone by. His pillow was soft and silky, Smooth, with a trim of lace Which he felt when he moved his head around And its tracery caught his face. “Time to get up, ” he drowsily thought And he yawned as he always did And in stretching his arms to remove his sheet His hands touched the coffin’s lid.
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