Love is not butterflies in the tummy
When you see him across the room;
Or a quick cuddle, or something else,
Behind the school hall.

Love is a woman bending over him,
Soothing his forehead as he lies there,
While in hushed tones the nurses whisper.


[I wrote this after I had spent a little time with an ex-colleague who was terminally ill in hospital; but it’s not limited to this one incident, and is a tribute to those who love — with all its pain — the terminally ill.]