Rebuked
written by: Stephen Kingsnorth
It was aged seven, recalled four,
on ward of children’s hospital,
that moment tea served, plastic cloth –
I knew I had been here before.
It haunts me yet, that latter stay –
no memories of four at all,
except the power of smell to tell
that three years pass, but nose just knows.
Indignity for courtesy,
rebuked by nurse as folded towel,
unexplained morning pessaries,
thirst raging, cup beyond cot reach.
My visit, noon, with daily weep –
poor mother, crossing London, hours,
a postwar journey past the blitzed,
where bombsites were her daily treat.
Today the plastic’s not the cloth,
more likely explosive itself;
and I’m rebuked, my little self,
by daily news of hospitals.
NOTE:
Based on the Prompt – The Taste of Memory
