THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2004

 
Graham Clifford
THAT SONG
 

I remember the cheap classroom clock
in the back of the ambulance
and your groan as we hit each speed bump.
The dried out apple core
peeking out from under a trolley
and me being sent home when your family got there:
I cooked sausages and wrapped up in our duvet
and watched a sitcom about hospitals
that started exactly as they slit you open.
Nights later, you turned on the radio
and that song came on
and it may have been the morphine
or your body rejoicing –
relieved of several septic inches-
but the music gleamed, like sunlight, you said.
In the dark she was singing words into you
and those words fixed you.

 

Return to Adjudicators Report