White Petals Poem by Mark Heathcote

Laying there still as can be
Knowing deaths countdown
Has aimed a forefinger at thee.
Mortal sleep can only make!
This pied piper unblinkingly aches.

So she stares out like a lover
Betrayed, griping her pillow
Hands in a fist; holding slender
'Sweet wrappers or a scented rose'
Imaginary days without bedclothes…

On the sill a yellow zinnia, buttonholes
The day she'll die. Too us
'It's just a new sun, casting shadows.
But to her, it is the heavy fall-
Of trumpet lilies, white petals.'