Being There

By R C Powell

The Common Man
lying in his bed,
dying.

Laboured breathing,
isolated,
from all he loves and who love him.

In the midst of a death dance, its all-consuming pain and fear,
downwards,
towards the dark and empty void.

He touches the bottom of the appalling darkness

  • alone.

Yet in the death dance, something stirs,
rises,
calls his name.

Sensations, feelings,
emotions, madness!
Rise, rise out of this dreadful hour.

An all-consuming feeling to fight encroaches,
pushing, like saplings rising from the earth,
spring, rise, rise, push.

And breathe, and breathe,
as she holds his hand, he breathes,
he stirs, he rises.

I live in Barry Island, Wales.  I work in the NHS and this poem is a tribute to the NHS and all it’s staff who make a difference every day because they are there and they care and they are saving lives.  So many staff, whatever their role contribute to trying to save lives – being there to make a difference. 

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Alan B Thomas
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Alan B Thomas
10 days ago

A powerful piece and a fitting tribute to all the NHS staff, especially those on the ‘front line’. Thank you.

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