Waiting Room, by Peter Neary-Chaplin

This seems appropriate as my old Mum is now on palliative care at the end of her journey.

Dying is a long thing,
a million bright moments carefully collected like stamps,
pressed between powdery pages,
an uncurared gospel of fragments.
Interpretation comes only
with the final part.
For now, we hold skinny hands in this waiting room.
The mattress pump purrs.
I witness every flicker of her alabaster face,
and dream of returning to memories of days with heart,
knowing that this book must close
and another life for each must start
with her repose. 

The Peace of Wild Things - Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.