Beyond The Call Of Duty

Tribute to a wartime nurse. Pic.: my own
‘Blue lit dreams misted over’ 
Lizelah Thaugally

 

Dragged to and fro on a wet stretcher,
desperate for signs of redeeming humanity,
maternal profiles, unknowingly proffered,
through thin blue cotton against barrage light,
did not go amiss, nor soft voice and hands
tending to deep wounds needing
skilful healing. Left defenceless,

eyes bandaged to lessen their distress,
with the last lorry about to leave, idling,
tortured mind visualised an angelic form
in summer dress, receding towards the sun;
until short, sharp breaths, a pulse fading,
bade her back, to fight on by desire alone;
pressing, stemming, her potions,

anaesthetic, as the ambience of her being,
like the soothing drugs of Dionysus
suspending body, mind, and time,
sensing no pain, separation or expectation,
but liberation; unaware of her sacrifice,
until, she and I met up again,
stranded at Dunkirk.

 

 

Goth:2020

 

0 0 votes
Rate This Writing
Subscribe
Notify of
0 Comments
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments