My cousin, they tell me, doesn’t wake up much,
nor does she seem to see the green mountain
framed in the window of this chapel of ease
for travellers booked in for their long pilgrimage.
When I leave at the end of visiting-hours
a small, tidy man is sitting by the door:
stick, well-knotted tie, watch-chain, tweed jacket.
He gets to his feet, raises his hat and enquires:
‘Excuse my troubling you, but would you be
going anywhere near a railway station?’
The young smiling nurse bends over him,
and takes him by the elbow, saying:
‘Maybe tomorrow, James. Maybe tomorrow
we’ll take you to the station.’
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