I wrote this poem whilst sitting in the reception area of St. Thomas’s Hospital, London, after receiving  some treatment. The word ‘Hospital’ has its roots in both hospitality and the monastic word, ‘Hospitium’ the ‘guest house’ where all are treated kindly’ and with concern for their well-being. Each visitor is held and welcomed. St Benedict says that all should be greeted and cared for as if they were Jesus Christ. In different forms, this is not unlike a hospital today.

Hospitium
thoughts in a hospital reception area.

People walking with purpose,
others more hesitantly,
faces clear or blank
or etched with anxiety.
Some in uniform
wearing lanyards of authority.

Squirming children in prams
pass quiet ones, carefully steered on beds;
some in pain,
others relieved – on the way to recovery.
Elderly folk, clutching arms
or balanced on sticks,
shuffle along uncertainly.

Visitors smile and greet,
lives intertwine.
Some, sad or worried,
seek news-givers
yet fear their words.

Hustle, bustle of humanity,
hand-holding, reassuring, realistic,
caring energy – often drained in service.

All humanity is present,
represented –
ethnic beauty,
language burble,
generations and races
sharing this space of hope.

All life is gathered where people seek healing,
are held, guided, directed, hugged
by walking crosses of dedication.
All, from cleaners to consultants,
playing their part
in being Christ-bearers to others.

The gentle receptionist looks kindly on.

{Mr.G. 16th April 2024}