A Dying Scotsman – New Poem (1st Draft)

A Dying Scotsman

I shuffle with my mother

and younger sister,

into the hospital room.


All three of us are heavy

with the weight of our own

personal bravery.


We leave my Dad

and younger brother outside

in the cramped, white hall.


All I can hear is your dry breathing,

and Wilma’s soft voice

thanking us for coming

so quickly from England.


This is the first time

I have been in a room

with a body that is failing fast.


I want to say so many things,

but all the words I want to use

are missing.


Where they’ve put needles

in your arms, bruises are swelling

like plums.


There’s a scar on my hand from

where I burnt it on the oven.

I look at that instead of your face

and chest, that jerks upwards

and down again.


When I hold your hand,

you are unable to hold back.