Outside the window the bark 
of the Himalayan silver birch 
is white but papery flaps peel away  
showing the underside is orange 
as tender flesh. Shreds flap 
in the wind and the sripped limbs 
become pristine, stark.    

Outside the hospital’s main entrance,
a few people are huddled alone 
their faces shrouded
in their hoodies, vaping. 
It’s 4am. I don’t know whether 
my love is still alive or 
if he’s died during my journey.
 
Orange lights shine in corridors 
all the way up to the top floor 
but the day’s commotion of arrivals 
and departures is over.  Just 
these few linger outside. I want 
to see inside  like an x-ray 

but have to get to the ninth floor 
in the syringe of the lift 
before I can know. There’s the pulse
of my own footsteps. My breath 
falls short. Layers of me are 
peeling away  so that I become 
a bone white filament  of myself.

Rebecca Gethin has written 5 poetry publications and 2 novels.  She was a Hawthornden Fellow and a Poetry School tutor.  Her poems are widely published in various magazines and anthologies. She won the first Coast to Coast pamphlet competition with Messages.