Time

You said it wasn’t your time to go,

your hand gripping the unfurled corner —

of the crisp white sheet —

long, slender fingers holding tight,

as if the bed stood shivering, swaying;

I understand, I said — but did I really?

The Nurse came in, said she’d take your pain —

your fingers relaxed, the tremor of life slowing.

The crumpled sheet eased into a flat curve —

and a smile lined a tired face.

Your palm in mine, as on a sunlit day —

clasping hands, feeling the glow of the morning

brush our skin, burnish our skin.

You were right — it wasn’t your time to go.

Àine Barron is an English teacher, avid writer, and advocate of all things poetry, art, and fiction. Àine holds a master’s degree from the National University of Galway in Literature and Publishing. She has a BA in English and History from the National University of Ireland Maynooth. Àine lives in Lobinstown, Co Meath with her husband Darren and two beautiful, fun-loving boys Donnacha and Ruairì.