Hard Fights And Very Small Triumphs. A life … A death.

The small private ward was now peaceful, but stark
No one was lying asleep in the dark
A young man had fought there all night for his life
She’d waited outside, his pregnant young wife.

The fight had been lost and there was no disguise
That could easily cover the hurt in the eyes
Of the doctors and nurses who’d seen the man’s pain
As they’d struggled to save him, as they’d struggled in vain.

Above and along in a different room
A baby emerged from a young mother’s womb
It was pretty and perfect as babies should be
The cord had been cut and the baby was free.

The husband and wife knew that they had been blessed
When their daughter was placed by the new mothers breast
She drank and she fed as her journey began
And they thought about names as they started to plan.

Very soon after the young man had died
His wife lost her baby and everyone cried
At the terrible waste they had witnessed that night
All wishing that they could make everything right.

But life in a hospital has to go on
There’s always more caring that needs to be done
Others will wait where the pregnant wife sat
But with happier outcomes, they all pray for that.


©Joe Wilson – Hard fights and very small triumphs. A life … a death…1994

I wrote this soon after I had been in hospital myself for a bypass, the young man was rushed in following a road accident. The maternity ward was in the wing opposite to the way our beds faced. Sadness and joy all at the same time, and I felt like I was adrift somewhere halfway along.

It shouldn’t be this way…

Our journey is one that’s fraught with danger
In decisions oft our choices make us doubt
But right to our final breath and from the manger
Guidance from our parents should help us out.

Oft-times we think ourselves alone.

The pain we feel can break us into pieces
With wreckage of us strewn across the floor
A gathering sense of wrong creates the creases
Of a life that doesn’t want to breathe any more.

Oft-times we think ourselves alone.

Late at night when shadows begin their taunting
And the world will close itself behind locked doors
Is the time when sorrow begs the most affection
It’s always someone’s fault, even mine or yours.

Oft-times we really are alone.

©Joe Wilson – It shouldn’t be this way…2014