The "C" Word

 'Dying' is too easy a word
for that shrivelled sack of bones,
the head so huge now, so heavy
hanging to one side
like a prehistoric Bog Man. He's so weak
he can't even cry. Only hold on.
So afraid of the Knowing. More
afraid than he ever was in war,

when he raced across North Africa,
braving shells and shot and fire,
all the way up Italy in his fat
Sherman tank - easy to hit,
but his metal coffin was blessed.
He lost hair and many friends,
but came back to his wife,
to his daughter now with him.

Shot down in his seventies,
his stomach riddled,
but he never said the 'C' word.
He admitted his fear for the first time,
a few days away from his end,
his daughter desperately holding on
to what was left of him:
his life, his memories, his love.