The Hospice Volunteer
I have returned to join a line of faces,
weíre printed onto plastic and clipped to a lanyard.
Itís a grip on an orange rope for my lone image toggling in the
Through the unlocking doors I go,
far from our last shared space and her dignified suffering,
yet close enough to hear the lanyard tut-tutting on my
The pass is waiting at the reader for my bravery to light up in
drawn from something at the centre that only she would
in an unshared space where I begin, again.
Those hours of gratitude for a strangerís dedication are saving
up on this card.
Itís the face where I will hang my name until it whispers the
to make my future more than a maybe.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Susan
Wilson would be pleased to hear them.