Iron In The Soul

I see her rising from sweat-soaked sheets
     her face gaunt and drawn.
Each night a rearguard fight to hold the line,
to struggle, push back, reach another dawn,
endure the stinging loss, major defeats
     and fast decline.

Then she is making tea and toast,
     a single scrambled egg
as others do worn down by months of pain
that fells the strong, compels the rest to beg
a moment free from hearing their own ghost
     sing death’s refrain.

Then she is standing in a bus
     with not one empty seat.
She clutches at a strap, silently prays
no fragile bones betray her planted feet,
no stop or start create unbalanced fuss
     or lurching sways.

Then I am reading and smell her fear
     descend like mustard gas.
I brace myself, inhale and numbly stare
at troubling visions of what would come to pass,
of what would be. Images blur then clear;
     they birth despair.

Then one faint sound gouges a hole,
     a space affording sight.
I hear her final breath, watch how her eyes
behind translucent lids emit a light
that shrinks the ball of iron in my soul
     to half its size.