The Pygmy Giant

by David Hill

The hospital is big and white
With car park charges outta sight
There’s little gates in every wall
Should I be walking here at all?
At last I find the way inside
The automatic doors divide
But signposts give me much delay
Bewildered in the entranceway

If I was dead, perhaps I’d be
Admitted much more easily
Excuse me, where’s Maternity?
Reception got the best of me
They questioned my identity
And said I wasn’t family
So pointed by an orderly
Toward the east extremity
Of Mervyn Peake’s infirmary
Sneaked flowers past Security

Patience echoes, passing late
The symbols of a healthcare State
Stinking plastic leaflets wait
For single mums to read and take
A hand to hold, the CSA
Will be there when the waters break

Courtyard windows, hidden doors
The strangest thing I ever saw
A red flag hung above the ward
No revolution bled the poor
Nor laboured they for peasantry
But brought to term a pregnancy
Of terrible malignancy
Leviathan’s nativity

The rest all happened suddenly
I guess it was a prophecy.

David Hill is a bid writer and company director from Essex.