Stories

I sit on the bed beside you,
reading aloud. A ripple
of night coolness billows in.
Though you are close to death,
gently your hand rises to flick
an edge of sheet across my legs.
It's forty years since we have
sat on the same bed, engaged
in the reading of stories.
Long ago they were of king
and queen, and of their daughter
who eats the poisoned apple.
Though paralysed, as if by death,
for many years, she does
survive to tell the story.
We try detective fiction now:
mazes brutal and excruciating
around the mystery of death.
But — coffee grounds, fag ends:
the style somewhat disappoints,
we're not compelled…
You gather yourself into sleep,
transparently,
as I fall silent.