Each day, it seems to be the same
The hours colliding as if one
Stretching out without any end
As if time has suddenly stopped
Alas, these poor and weary feet
They seemed to have walked miles
This seems to be an endless destination
Like walking forever in some circle
I am not alone in this forever walk
Of the same tasks, day after day
Someone has to face what comes
For Hospitals, they never stop, never sleep.
copyright Chris Smith 2011
The hours colliding as if one
Stretching out without any end
As if time has suddenly stopped
Alas, these poor and weary feet
They seemed to have walked miles
This seems to be an endless destination
Like walking forever in some circle
I am not alone in this forever walk
Of the same tasks, day after day
Someone has to face what comes
For Hospitals, they never stop, never sleep.
copyright Chris Smith 2011
And it is it seems a thankless job. But as with poetry in days of old, the thanks had no vessel in which to be transported. My nan spend almost 60 years of her general practise giving voluntary consultation and treatment at her local community health centre as well as weekly from her home. Today her remains are being cremated. And I wonder how many thanks never reached her ear... let alone her pockets.
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