Heading downwards my pale washed Queen cracked her head, a valley gash
But being risen
whispered NO to needed stitches in the head

Belly up with split head skin weeping blood
my soldier Queen obeyed, a bit
laying still, unimpressed, almost robotic, till sterilized water made safe the cut

Swift as birds, my hands like wings, cleansed and covered creating makeshift stitches from shredded plasters and tape.
Did the job.
Was hot too.
And tempers burnt.

Now, laying without fuss, hands cuddling hot tea cup my indomitable old Queen
asks 'where you going?'
'To bed' I said squeezing her purple toes

'to sleep' I thought 'my chance to dream'