Up And Down

After five fascinating and sun-filled days in Seville I returned to storm-tossed Scotland and a horizontal fence. Days later I myself was horizontal, in bed with some hellish virus, and feeling very sorry for myself. Still am.

Infection

It seems that all the world's asleep, except
for me. It's after three, my raw nose streams,
the rafters echo with my clammy cough. Kept
awake, I curse all those who drift in dreams.
So out of bed and down the hall I creep.
My perspiration chills; my jacket clings.
The kitchen seems not right, its quietness deep:
a lethargy contaminates all things.
Then pills, hot juice - and the ghosts come calling.
They sit through the night; they're frightened, they're thin.
Most come from the past, frail, almost falling;
some come from the future, sure to get in.
And I, at this time of least resistance,
look to lighted windows in the distance.

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