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I went to the house of a man who was dying,
I stood by his bed and listened to the rattle of his breath,
The nurse said he would die that day;
She said it to me in a whisper, like a secret I mustn't tell.
How could I agree? In front of me I saw him alive and knew
He was a living vessel of memories and dreams,
Once lucid now lax, like his body.
In all the times I had seen him he had spoken to me once.
This last time he did not speak.

I left the house, the living man in his bed,
and returned hours later to wash the casket of his body.
The rattle was gone.
I spoke to him as I patted scented talc onto his now mottled skin,
And whispered hushed apologies every time I touched him,
Knowing he could not hear me;
That he would never know his daughters had washed his face,
that he was wearing matching pyjamas,
that I would not forget him.

Outside the wind was quick and angry,
Carrying his life away over the tops of houses.
In one day I saw him live and die,
How quiet death is, how still.