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In his mind the road descends to pale blues
that he hopes is the sea. But he hears no waves.

The curtains shut out the sun and hide everything; 
nights fall at noon but time doesn't, the hours . 

circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket. 

He can only imagine cold, the earth in his garden ,
crumbling between his fingers. He used to sense

the beginning.  Much now is idle, and speculation.
Hereafter will be shared by others out of earshot, 

like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how doctors reduce him to a problem to be solved. 

They implore him to heal himself but he is tired,
too tired, too short of breath for the journey.

He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.

We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close.

Original

Leaving

His road descends to a recollection of the palest blues.
He would like them to be the sea, but hears no waves.

The curtains are drawn to the sun,  as if shutting out light
hides everything; in fact, it brings nights on faster,  

they circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket. 

He can only imagine cold, remembers his garden left behind,
the earth breaking between his fingers, seeds, and water, 

a sense of beginning. So much now is idle, and speculation.
If there is an after, it will be shared by others out of earshot, 

like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how they reduce him to a problem to be solved. 

They implore him to solve himself but he is tired,
too tired too short of breath for the journey.

He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.

We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close.

His road descends to a recollection of the palest blues.
He would like them to be the sea, but hears no waves.

The curtains are drawn to the sun,  as if shutting out light
hides everything; in fact, it brings nights on faster,  

they circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall.
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket.
 

Hi Dave,

I'm Trying to sort out the above: Does the "them" S1, L2 refer to "recollection"as well as the  "they" beginning S3 ?
If I am correct then shouldn't recollection be plural?

I have wrestled with using "in fact" in poetry and gone ahead and done it. But I have a sneaky feeling it is a bit telly. I hope to be told I'm wrong

Beyond the initial confusion this is a heartrending description of what seems to be a long decline attended by an N who is now involved in a death-watch. And there is the unfortunate truth that there is nothing the dying can tell us about the trajectory of death, no solution to be offered. I can see this as an analogy for something much larger. It works on both levels. Thank you for posting this.

 

HI Dave - a caring and touching poem.  Seems to hit close to home.

On first and subsequent reads, "them" in S1 L2 seems to refer to "the palest blues."  And nicely done at that.
And "they" in S3 L1 refers to "the curtains" in S2, if I am not mistaken.  At least this is what I see. 
And the "they" in S7   refer to the "whispers" in S6...........
Last stanza is awesome, nails it.

I like this very much.

Aj

The curtains are drawn to the sun, as if shutting out light
hides everything; in fact, it brings nights on faster, 'in fact' is moot. Is 'it' the 'shutting'?

they circle his hesitant breaths, wait for them to stall. Are 'they' the curtains? If not a full stop after 'faster'?
The trapped-in heat suffocates him like a blanket.

He can only imagine cold, remembers his garden left behind, Left behind what? Seems grammatically awkward?
the earth breaking between his fingers, seeds, and water,

a sense of beginning. So much now is idle, and speculation.
If there is an after, it will be shared by others out of earshot,

like the whispers he hears behind his closed door,
how they reduce him to a problem to be solved. Like this S.

They implore him to solve himself but he is tired,
too tired too short of breath for the journey. This too.

He wonders how he will ever reach the other shore
if there is headwind. I sit with him. We do not speak.

We blink occasionally. rehearse silence and patience,
perform the epilogue before the curtains close. Nice finish.

Thanks for the help and comments. That was a great critique Colm, very very helpful on many levels, thanks. I cans see indeed the pronouns are not doing the reader many favours.
Dave