BROMPTON REVISITED
Just now, you have telephoned me, told me
That things are not going so well:
Your blood infection count has risen greatly,
And although your lung has re-inflated,
It could collapse again:
And that, in your weak condition,
Your body couldn’t entertain.
So the line must now be reinstated.
Drugs intravenously injected,
Quickly.
We were silent for a moment,
Each listening to the tolling bell,
Pretending that we couldn’t hear it,
Then we both spoke simultaneously,
Trying to drown the dirge-like knell:
Words spilling down the line, jokingly.
You said your lunch had just arrived,
And I could see you poking it distastefully.
I reminded you that you had to get,
Some weight on – vital to your survival,
And you promised you’d try not to let
that un-appetising foil clad plate,
Go back wastefully,
Uneaten.
We said goodbye, and I, grasping any straw I could,
Not knowing the accepted mode of address,
Nor even the direction in which I should face,
Prayed to a God that I neither knew nor understood,
But who had to be out there somewhere,
Prayed for some miracle, some breakthrough, success,
For the team – the men, the women, the consultants,
The cleaners - and all of the rest:
Prayed their dedication might shortly redress,
The infection dwelling within you,
And that you would come back from nowhere.
Now the funeral bell rings its dirge-like knell:
And I pray for the souls of the departed;
Giving thanks to the God that I ne’er understood,
That you’ve been saved - and that we’re reunited.
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