Quiet on the wing

Its five pm, on the second of June,
and the whispers first emerge.
Ears firmly pressed to windows and doors
hanging onto every word.
He seemed alright this morning
just his usual self,
i spoke about him at visiting time,
and told of his shipping out.
I wished he had talked to someone,
about the demons in his head,
the trip in the van, the ferry, and off to the isle of dread.
But as he passes my cell on the stretcher,
its far too late to do anything,
so its cheerio, and god bless Colin,
and another empty cell on the wing.