And what healing it was, this healing
endured through the sickest of years :
white bandages, red-faced bed baths,
the student doctors lauding x-rays
as works of art; my own masterpiece
hung askew near bright metal devices
that hummed, turned our air sweet,
unnerved the chambers of my heart.
Thirty six weeks without diagnosis
despite tests, calculations, diagrams –
blood samples lined up like lollies,
night terrors gauged in kilowatts,
calcium siphoned for willing bones;
each morning the promise of home
became a more distant prospect,
visiting hours brought spectacular
gifts wrapped with ribbons and bows,
teenagers tutting to shoot the crow.
Our loved ones, masters of deflection,
offered gossip in place of questions
they couldn’t find the strength to ask,
weeping behind surgical masks.
Copyright © Paul Clyne 2014
Paul Clyne lives and works in Fife, Scotland. He has returned to writing poetry recently after a ten year hiatus.