This poem is taken from Stand 226, 18(2) June - August 2020.

Steve Griffiths Two Poems
The Gift

It was the kind of space
you’d be proud to work in.
The women looking out for each other
from the half dozen beds in the patient bay.
The one who’d fallen in the bathroom
at home after surgery
and broken tibia and knee
was the life and soul
as the sightlines were passed back and forth.
Those who left would remember her.
Staff, noticing,
out of the matrix of what made them.
You’d want to find something to bring to this.

To recreate it,
follow the trails
                          back up or down
from where healing poured like sunlight
to where each found
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