In the bowels
of this London
hospital
I watch you
in the cafe.
Pen in hand,
ear to the phone.
Intent.
Fingers making notes
with the precision
of an accomplished
pianist.
My brother’s heart
recovers.
While your blue
scrubs remind me
of the last surgeons
in Ghouta and Douma.
My gaze moves into
what if
these well-lit
magnolia walls
and stainless steel
counters and multi-coloured innards
of vending machines
and these quiet people
were hit by barrel bombs
and chlorine gas?
These Bluenesses
of skills and knowledge,
of sweat and tears and
hungry sleeplessness
would watch over
hearts
shattered by the
boulders of buildings –
their fingers
feeling for
the fragments
of fragile lives.
I bite my salad
sandwich.
A man will be known
by what he does
And not by what he says.
Eileen Walke April 2018
