Wednesday, 8 April 2020



Dropped off with  mobility scooter
 doors opened for me
in the corridor of muted colours,
my guide.
Masks or smiles,
distorted greetings.
Hand gel and thermometers,
lift doors open
to another empty temple.
An echo of a staged performance
without the audience
I settle in a chair.
I’m linked to a drip.
More bloods are taken.
I wait.
I know now how to wait:
the watcher from the chair
A stream of nurses pass to stock trolleys,
with a strange dearth of patients.
I try to disengage from the
grip of anxiety low in my stomach.
I read a book whose title I’ve forgotten.
I text family to reassure them.
I want it to be over.
Finally it is.
I leave in a flourish of hand gel.
Should I have gone? 
For an infusion to prevent cancer?
A hospital visit my only contact with the outside.
My lockdown release,
an incalculable risk benefit
Then I notice the wind in my hair,
the on my face.
Odd glimpses into others lives,
Small boys learning cricket with Dads.
Blossom bursting from colourful gardens.
Kindness from passerby’s,
smiles as we weave a safe path
The Castle in the distance settles me.
It has seen so much.
This too will pass.
I turn into our drive way.
The evening sun calls to us,
‘Join me’ 
So we do.  

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