Ward 72, Room 21
by Jim Aitken
Through the large hospital window
there are mountains of grey cloud
which resemble the state of my lungs.
Though happy enough to be in here
considering the condition I am in,
I decide to make the best of it.
And engage with the multicultural staff
given the task of aiding my recovery
and sending me back home again.
Nurse Agatha from Nigeria came in
to infuse my arm with antibiotics
and we spoke of Chinua Achebe.
Teresa from Porto came in with tea
and biscuits and we spoke about
Pessoa, Saramago and Paula Rego,
There were Irish and Asian doctors,
cleaners from Poland and China
and plenty of Scots all caring for me.
It seemed the workers of the world
were coming together in my name
and this was an infusion of pride.
But they were understaffed and tired
and carried on regardless of demands
filling me with a deep admiration
That was tinged with anger at those
deliberately cutting back public services
and raising racist calls to Stop the Boats.
Take those not born here out of the NHS
and it collapses like a castle of cards
as it would surely deserve to do.
Being here confirmed all I have held true –
that we are all one, that united we stand
and divided we will all definitely fall.
