Scenes of Conscience [sonnet]
Her life swept through the air across the room
like glassy sand grains on a windswept beach
burying me up to my neck in gloom —
though salty tears were still within my reach.
The wheelchair by her side spoke to me most.
A single gloved hand dangled lifelessly.
Her hair was short — her face white as a ghost.
She stared up at the ceiling wonderingly.
I noticed then her sore and blistered hand
(the one which wasn’t hidden in a glove).
Such scenes as this our consciences demand;
a silent prayer I fired to realms above:
Forgive me if from time to time I whine:
so many folks have far worse lives than mine.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 