ADMISSION

BREAK

Sunday, noon, a cottage hospital
in a windy seaside town;
six nurses sit, their aching feet up,
gathered for an off-ward break
and waiting for roast dinners.
Outside, a penetrating wind gusts,
blowing dust from dry flower-beds.
Inside, the nurses chat, relaxed -
one even lights a cigarette -
and spill the morning’s stories.
Shoes are kicked off, tea is sipped,
black-hosed toes are flexed,
one shuts her eyes, smells roasting pork,
reminding her of Grammar School
and canteen dinner hours.
A known bell rings insistently,
the smoker pads the corridor
to open the oak outer door
beyond which stands a thin young man
in green pyjamas, slippers.
‘I thought I’d come at once,’ he sighs,
‘I realised just now my mind
‘was broken. When you break something,
‘you come to hospital.’ His eyes
are filling up with tears.
He shivers as she stands and stares,
thinks ‘Damn it’ and then smiles.
Reaching out to take his hand,
she pulls the massive oaken door
firmly closed behind them.

Trevor Hewett