I don't think Trevor Hewett is excessively morbid, but much of his poetry does focus on the demented, the elderly and the sick.

However, he always treats his subjects in a sympathetic way - as in this description of a man who has suffered a heart attack, or stroke.

camelot

GLIMPSES

He knew when he was young he had
quick wits, the necessary stuff
to turn a skinny, crew-cut lad
into a giant; just enough
of charm and luck to tread the path
with all its bright components laid
before him. With his ready laugh
and willing work rate he was made
professor at just twenty-eight
and praise and honours gathered in
about him. Through a May Ball date
he met and married Carolyn
and sired two sons; their house - ‘The Creek’ -
was river-sided, modern, bright.
However, he would never speak
of darting chest pains in the night
until the day they found him prone
across his sheaves of papers, grey,
hands grasping for the telephone,
brown tablets scattered where he lay.
Now, pensioned-out at forty-two,
he reads his travel books, sci-fi,
and watches garden finches through
his tall French doors, distracted by
stray thoughts, like glimpses of the birds,
that flit into his spinning mind.
For now, without a voice or words,
he cannot countenance or find
a way to reconcile his lot
with that of other men. Instead,
he thinks and reads of Camelot,
thankful that he isn’t dead.

Trevor Hewett