A concrete sentinal, whose neon gaze,
unblinking through the milky early gloom,
scarce penetrates to light in orange haze
the mysteries within that silent room,
stares on. Till creeping dawn dispels the night.
A flat green furnished space, small, well-worn, plain.
The gas fire burning still. Its pale blue light
Won't warm the flesh, though flesh alone remain.
A good old man sits in his favourite chair,
his battered Bible open at a Psalm,
his bowed head pictures everlasting prayer.
No pain now, just the timeless, breathless, calm.
His deep devotions over yesterday,
saw into heaven and couldn't keep away.