I’m sitting on a flip-up plastic seat. Waiting.
It’s cornflower blue:
the blue of balloons, a children’s toy.
The blue of hope. I wait.

The door that holds you in is powder blue
                                  mist stretches and thins
                                  letting the morning through
                                  from snow-wrapped
                                  mountains. My nostrils
                                  sting in icy ether.

The floor’s a beach
                 the sand-flecked tide
                                  ebbed to polished mirage
                                  where curlews wobble
                                  a fresh sluiced slab
                 a hall of mirrors
twisting faces into grief.

The trolley with the suction tubes
to make you come alive again
                                  is red
                                  fire brigade red
                                  no-nonsense red
                                  blood red just bled
                                  not old or caked
                                  or brown.
                                  Or dead.

A white cloth drapes across the trolley top
                 an altar sheet
                 arranging its folds
                 cornering the shadows
                                  angling for attention
                 come and paint me.

The exit doors (NO EXIT) are barred and midnight blue
too blue
to be trusted
midnight express

through a starry dome
to nowhere.

But I look back to the mountain sky.
Waiting. Watching the snow fall.