View from a hospital window

In the frame of my limited view, four floors up,

lines of scudded clouds lie banked above suburban ordinariness.

Segments of palest blue sky peep through like a promise, like hope.

The early sun is strong, piercing the latent clouds, edges tinged with gold,

and four hot air balloons draw my tired eyes upward, following their graceful path.

Apart from the sky, a single Norfolk pine occupies my view,

birds perch proudly among the tallest branches, fluttering and chatting.

A plane arcs its silver trajectory across the sky, 

while three white birds in triangular formation cross its trail.

My eyelids flutter shut, yet the scene has drawn my attention

away from the painful indignity of the drip

humming balefully on its five-wheeled stand,

which bleeps loudly if occluded, or its plump suspended bag of saline

or medicine is depleted, as it measures drop by drop

its contents into the vein in the crook of my arm.

A trip to the toilet involves dragging the ungainly drip on its stubborn wheels.

I feel pain, guilt, sadness and confusion, that I'm here again,

putting people out of the comfortable ordinariness of their lives.

The dull ache continues, punctuated sometimes by sharp pain.

The cat scan results inconclusive, a low fever persists, at times,

and I must suffer on and struggle on through the days.

I've had enough.

I want to go home and lie in the sun, and breathe the scent of banked purple flowers.

In just half an hour the clouds have already been burnt away by the sun.

Another hot, stinking day it seems,

as the garbage truck on the street below bleeps in time with my occluded drip.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Banked purple flowers @ Jennifer Phillips