Your last word was water,
which I poured in a hospice plastic cup, held
to your lips – your small sip, half‐smile, sigh –
then, in the chair beside you,
fell asleep.

Fell asleep for three lost hours,
only to waken, thirsty, hear then see
a magpie warn in a bush outside –
dawn so soon – and swallow from your still‐full cup.

Water. The times I’d call as a child
for a drink, till you’d come, sit on the edge
of the bed in the dark, holding my hand,
just as we held hands now and you died.

A good last word.
Nights since I’ve cried, but gone
to my own child’s side with a drink, watched
her gulp it down then sleep. Water.
What a mother brings
through darkness still
to her parched daughter.