Ogwen Ward

Blue tunics woke you at two last

night, they rattled and

hurried you

into another whitewashed

ward for six. The wake-up

call at seven exposed your

bones to the strange ones, plastic

lights on, florid

curtain pulled back and your

homely gingham pyjamas stirring

under starched sheets.


Pipelines hang from all your

features, clogging them up like

cement on a punctured road. Suddenly you’re

tangled in plastic, it doesn’t look like you


even the length of your breathing, once

as long as the horizon, is now

hitting wall after wall. Staccato.


Zoe Williams