Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Chilling Shivers to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
They wheeled me to Ward Nine one night when the corridors were dim,
And the nurse who signed my forms was thin and strangely grim.
The room was cold as winter, though the heater hummed so loud,
And the curtain round the next bed was a pale and hanging shroud.
Behind it something whispered in a voice both dry and sweet,
It said, don't trust the lullabies they hum at half past three.
For anyone who falls asleep is a patient no more, like me,
And they keep the beds in order and the sheets forever neat.
I stayed awake till morning with my fingers clenched in the sheet,
And the curtain round the next bed rustled softly at my feet.
At dawn the nurse came smiling and drew the curtain wide,
There was only a bare mattress, and an old white chair beside.
I was discharged by noon, and I am healthy, so they say,
But I still hear the lullaby, and I hear it every day.
Poet of Chilling Shivers · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
Hospitals are places of hope, but night on a quiet ward can feel like the edge of another world. This poem follows one patient who hears a warning from behind a curtain.
The speaker is wheeled to “Ward Nine” at night, where the nurse is “thin and strangely grim.” The room is “cold as winter, though the heater hummed so loud,” and the next bed is hidden by “a pale and hanging shroud.” A dry, sweet voice warns, “don’t trust the lullabies they hum at half past three.”
The voice says that “anyone who falls asleep is a patient no more.” The speaker stays awake, watching the curtain rustle. At dawn the nurse “drew the curtain wide,” revealing “only a bare mattress.” The speaker is “discharged by noon,” but “I still hear the lullaby.”