The scene in Wit when Emma Thompson, who is slowly dying, is read The Runaway Bunny.

Reading The Runaway Bunny
to the tiny girls
I babysit, they climb,
eager, entranced, over each other
to crane towards the page,
their mouths agape,
like the extraordinary
wobbled shapes of a strawberry
or tomato, the little cosmic
knob or notch, and each one
glistens
with the salt-water
of the earth,
and is christened.
I hold them
close, wipe their drool
away; the clouds
are just dabs
of butter
in a saucepan.