'Visiting Hour' by Norman MacCaig
Visiting Hour
The hospital smell
combs my nostrils
as they go bobbing along
green and yellow corridors.
5 What seems a corpse
is trundled into a lift and vanishes
heavenward.
I will not feel, I will not
feel, until
10 I have to.
Nurses walk lightly, swiftly,
here and up and down and there,
their slender waists miraculously
carrying their burden
15 of so much pain, so
many deaths, their eyes
still clear after
so many farewells.
Ward 7. She lies
20 in a white cave of forgetfulness.
A withered hand
trembles on its stalk. Eyes move
behind eyelids too heavy
to raise. Into an arm wasted
25 of colour a glass fang is fixed,
not guzzling but giving.
And between her and me
distance shrinks till there is none left
but the distance of pain that neither she
nor I
30 can cross.
She smiles a little at this
black figure in her white cave
who clumsily rises
in the round swimming waves of a bell
35 and dizzily goes off, growing fainter,
not smaller, leaving behind only
books that will not be read
and fruitless fruits.
Norman MacCaig