A houseman walks in the treacle of night,
Weary, uncertain, and spent.
The white coat weighs heavy, his armour and cloak,
Through the corridor’s hush with midnight long passed.
With a ward-weary tread that the darkness evokes,
He carries his burdens, holding them fast:
The stethoscope coiled and the dog-eared guide,
The ink of a pen, the tools of his trade.
Twenty long hours are etched in his stride,
With twelve more to go ’til the worries will fade.
On the edge of a dream, the long hallway slows,
A stillness leaking from the foothills of sleep.
Diastole — enlivening a waning soul—
Unwinding the weave, re-spinning the thread.
In this silvered silence, the fabric is healed,
Calming the body, and soothing the mind.
With spirit rekindled he slips from the dream
To leave the soft hush of the hallway behind.
The ward door waits, a heavy, fireproof seal,
Between that silvered silence and a ghastly shriek;
Beyond it lies crisis and the all-too real,
Where questions wait, and answers are to seek.
He stands a moment, hand held on the plate;
The corridor has stilled his inner storm.
He leaves the self outside that heavy door, and
Instinctively the doctor’s mask begins to form:
The ward door stands heavy, a fireproof seal,
Between placid stillness and a rising swell.
Beyond lies crisis, tragedies made real,
Where problems stalk, and miseries dwell.
He stands a moment, alone on the floor;
Feels the stillness ebb and reality return.
He lifts weary eyes, places his hand on the door;
Unbidden the doctor’s mask slowly takes form.
Unhurried, capable, and sure.
He draws a breath — And pushes open the door.
MJM
The Land of Lost Content (1984)
Into my heart an air that kills
From that lost country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
A different walk in years long past,
When “this year’s prince was born,”
And questions in the press were cast:
“Wish you were better informed?”
The blast at Brighton, Orgreave’s fight,
Greenham’s wire, Band-Aid song;
A world of shadow in the light,
Where once we did belong.
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The sunlit highways where I went
And cannot come again.
With apologies to A. E. Houseman for butchering his verse
