The Shortest Way Round

Anaesthetic

With a swift gesture, the tired-eyed local nurse
Opens the valve under the IV a crack wider,
Freeing a nullifying rush of cold and graceful peace.
She hikes up the sheets on a diminishing soul.

Daffodils circle the grave-tree, March-blossoming,
Standing in stubborn fealty against squall and shower,
For the spirit that has shed its need for dead places,
Standing with the vigil-keeping foxgloves in the garden.

Satellites and transmitters shrink the open country
And open sea to the space between mouth and ear.
Ethereal baritone braving midnight storms,
Unfazed by cold, undaunted by distance, bringing news from
The garden to my hands. The daffodil at my window
Braces to the wind that blew over foxgloves, hours ago.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.