TENTATIVE, IN ADVENT

Sitting in Departures, still,
Amidst the silent inevitability
Of pre-dawn preparations,
I watch, yawning in
Anticipation.

A plane waits,
Dis-eased upon the ground
And jessed to Gate 19.
Such waiting is the
Cockcrow of the day.

In the half-light, heavy-hearted,
A family waits around a bedside,
Stretching the long night-watch,
Attentive to the final
Stuttering of breath.

Elsewhere a mother waits,
- expectant blend of fear and hope -
Straining in anguished rhythm,
Reluctant yet,
Before the final push.

Memories there are, as well:
Centennial nightmares of
Another "final push"
As young men awaited
Death's whistling invitation.

And hidden deep beneath the sheets
A child waits,
with dread, amidst
The stifled screams and sobs
of raw domestic violence.

Even the sun, it seems,
In Advent doubt,
waits with tender longing,
uncertain if
to bless another day.



On flying back to London from the Indian Ocean
December 2014