Carol Ann Duffy — Water

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.