The man with half a face

In the largest ward, the old one,
in the corner, behind a screen,
the ravaged part of him turned discreetly to the wall,
lay the man with half a face.
No eye, no ear, no nose, no teeth,
from cheekbone to broken chin
was left to him only
a great hole covered with a graft of pale skin
and bordered with a twist of lip.

He accepted company with grace,
and spoke little in a whisper,
mainly to give thanks:
for warm bed and cool drink,
for hot food (though it was not)
and blankets softer than his own,
for kind nurses and blue skies
(we had to look out the window),
for mystery gifts,
a rose from the florist,
unexpected healing.

An old recluse, they’d said,
who had no-one to visit him:
but there was always a patient
or nurse or doctor sitting quiet and
awestruck there
listening to the silent music of his
thank you, thank you, thank you.

I saw a sunbeam move across his bed
and, I swear to you,
every mote of dust was dancing.