Conscious
His
fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed.
His
eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped
by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
The
blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
What
a smooth floor the ward has! What a rug!
Who
is that talking somewhere out of sight?
Three
flies are creeping round the shiny jug . . .
‘Nurse!
Doctor!’—‘Yes, all right, all right.’
But
sudden evening muddles all the air—
There
seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse
looks so far away. And here and there
Music
and roses burst through crimson slaughter.
He
can’t remember where he saw blue sky.
More
blankets. Cold. He’s cold. And yet so hot.
And
there’s no light to see the voices by . . .
There
is no time to ask—he knows not what.
Wilfred
Owen
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