Snowdrops in the Light of the Blaze Poem by Selima Hill

His breathing had always been bad —
there was something wrong with his tubes —
so he often went out to the Art Shed:
it's nice to get out in the air
the snowdrops so white in the darkness —
but tonight he isn't alone —
a girl in a nightie runs past
and into the rhododendrons;
and as he looks up at the building
crackling among the pines
he's seen by the old headmaster
who naturally thinks it was him,
the asthmatic snowdrop collector.
The ride to the station proceeds
like someone drying their toes —
slow, as if something important
were happening to somebody else,
and will soon happen here, and to you.
I don't think he'll ever be normal,
but he draws very well, when he wants to.