Nan’s Bedside

She tells me her pain is a squall,
sudden and vicious, a flash storm

whipping in from Bass Strait
to batter King Island.
Do you remember our Island, Garth?

Her doctors build windbreaks; nurses batten
down hatches, but this tempest

won’t blow over. She says her pain’s now a vulture,
circling the desert on threadbare wings.
A glass of water if you please, Garth?

With beak and claw, it slashes and rips
nerve endings, drinks color from her eyes.

She tells me her pain has grown faint,
the soft whisper of pages.
Tell me a story before bed, dear Garth.

I don’t tell her that I’m her grandson—
not her lost brother, Garth.

She's the waxing flame, dying breath;
wanderer to new kingdom come.