You drew breath​

​

as a boy draws something silver from a river,

an angler from the sea a bale of weed;

as a woman draws herself from a bath,

as blood is drawn from a vein.

You drew breath as thread is drawn through

the eye of a needle, wet sheets through a mangle,

as steel is drawn through a die to make wire

and oil draws up through wick its flag of fire.

You drew breath as a reservoir draws from a well

of ink and a mouth and a nose and eyes are drawn,

as a sheet is drawn from under the dying

and over the heads of the dead.

You drew breath as the last wheezing pint is drawn,

as money and a bow and the tide are drawn;

as up over her head a woman draws

a dress and down onto her a man.

You drew breath as a cloud draws its pall

across the moon, across the car park

where a sky-blue line draws the way

all the way to Maternity; as all in blue

they drew a semi-circle round the bed,

a line and then a knife across the skin;

as in another room someone drew

a curtain round its runner, a hand across

a pair of finished eyes. You drew breath

as they drew you – besmeared and blue – out

and sublime was your fury at being drawn

into this air, this theatre; you drew breath

for the first time – for a second I held mine.