Not the National Health Service

They clip along clinical corridors

and treat the tedious and the tragic,

each one reaching beyond their

limits so that each one has hope.


Enclosing, muffling masks cover 

their sympathetic smiles, then it’s

visors and space suits and visitors

unwelcome, and the space is sanitised.


Theatres meant for healing lie 

   empty, panicking patients at home,

while government ministers give

a twist to the screws that will 


kill it, destroy it, and buy the 

national out of its name, whilst

service is gone from it too, and

it lies broken and bruised and 


will be publicly, privately owned, 

and clinics will return to those 


in destitution, for still a few

brave medics work out of


poverty, kindling purpose ‘n

compassion, understanding

and the graciousness of a 

few, living in debt to live out


their commission to serve

the suffering sick, keeping 

hope for free, while hospitals


in the pockets of the rich.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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