BERNARD PEARSON

The Ward Room

I remember my father’s
fine fingers, resting
on the hospital sheet.
Dappled handsome, by the tropics.
Dipped in salt and romance
by the life he lived and the
mind he had, while feeding
from the hand of God.
But now, his hand,
laying upon a billowless sail,
taking what was to be, a dog watch
until his sleep at first light.