The Bombing of Hospitals There was a time when they were kept far Away from the front. Unafraid for their lives, The nurses moved calmly through the wards Carrying trays of shrapnel stewed in blood. Days were slow. Letters came to say that, Elsewhere, babies were being born, novels Being published, plays being produced. The letters, which had already been opened By the time they reached the men they were Addressed to, said, between the lines, that There was a world yet untouched by the war, A world they would be returning to once They heeled. Some of the letters contained News from the front, far enough away to have To be borne in the form of language, Not as light and noise, and as the news Of the latest battle was read out loud, The war seemed like a nightmare they had Had in common, and had woken from Together, all at once. There was time for flirtations to flare between Nurses and patients, a few affairs. Smoking Between amputations, the surgeons laughed Under the trees, their bloody shirtsleeves Rolled up, while in the garden convalescents Hobbled about on crutches, played croquet, Fell asleep in wheelchairs, apple blossoms Fallen into their hair. Their only fear was that Gangrene would set in, that they would be The next to turn quiet and toward the wall. They feared flies and bedsores, bad news From home, the sudden appearance of a friend Who’d been gravely-wounded. But the hospital Itself, built of brick or wood, or composed Of rows of linen tents pitched in a field In a rush, was understood by all to be protected By the presence of the wounded themselves, Who knew no new harm could come to them, Only the old harm find a firmer hold, And pull them under.
I like this very much. Was surprised to see it’s a prose poem when I went to the site. In email it shows as wrapping lines for some reason.
(Please note “healed” not “heeled.”)