H

One hesitates tentatively at each corner
for fear of what may loom into view,
the plethora of signs provide the clues
Surgical, Renal, Haematology, even Bereavement
are listed as we scurry past,
giving the impression that we are confident
of our eventual destination.

Then a powdery grey ghost appears
dragging sorry bones into view,
followed by her apologetic spouse
pallid, hopeless, similarly grey.
Mentally recoiling we improve our gait
but just in time to evade obesity,
an over-flushed apple of a man
sitting, nay wearing a mobility scooter,
still puffing as he whirrs toward the exit
and a much earned cigarette.

There is death here and we know it,
though carefully hidden
amongst the corners and recesses,
it waits to pounce upon the frail.
Passing groups stay huddled tight
none wish to bring up the rear,
always the one to be picked off first.


Then safety at last,
the grubby sanctuary of a service lift,
scuffed and battered stainless steel,
safe from the zomboidal claws.
We ascend to level two heaven,
bright lights, laughter,
Maternity, new life cries out
here among the dead and dying,
fresh hope within Pandora’s woes.
We search for Bea and feel ourselves re-born

© Graham Sherwood 2/2014