November 2025
Clapping
For the staff on Ward 36 at the Royal Lancaster Infirmary, where I spent the night of August 13th 2020.
There should be a song for them,
their voices drowned by beeping monitors,
rattling trolleys, cries of distress in the night.
There should be a dance for them
as they move quietly from bed to bed,
walk the echoing corridors,
too tired to let themselves stop.
There should be a poem for them
in the rhythm of pulses taken,
faltering heartbeats counted.
There should be a story for them
of each wakeful night, each early morning,
each mess cleaned up, each bed made,
each catheter changed, each pill dispensed,
each smile, each moment of laughter,
of all the shit, the blood and the vomit,
of how they sit with those
who would otherwise die alone,
their unfaltering respect, their patience.
There should be a wild celebration, a special day,
a loud fanfare and a minute’s silence.
There should be a decent wage, time to recover.
Whatever we give them it should more
than just clapping.