An E R morning.

An E R morning.

It is a strange peace

A sceptic silence

Cubicles swept clean

Of yesterdays blood.

The high tide

Of broken souls

Washed and rinsed.

The hollow thrum

Of lonely digits drumming,

Just a ripple

On the surface

Of the morning coffee

Leaving a memory,

Of dirty nails

Fingerless gloves,

Restless, hobo nights

And slippery floors.

Midnight pain

A sleepless dream

Of grown up children

With broken hearts

Seeking comfort

In the tired eyes

Of a hospital porter,

Spilling stories

In a corner.

Frightened faces,

Crushed in sorrow

And wearing the sign

Of defeat like a shawl

An old crone’s cowl,

Pulled tight

Across unwept scars,

A dirty bandage

For an old soul,

To protect against

The breath of death,

The stench of poverty

The puss of their own decay.

A woman’s sadness

Treated like leprosy

And given a wide birth.

No time given to sit and talk,

In a place where

Pain is triaged

With a stitch in time,

As shared experience

And no space

For the fat cats

To value their worth

In private consultation.