By Wendy Norman

He serves the sick and the dying

Never letting on his own health declining

His purpose to serve and cure the people ill

Overrides his needs and strengthens his will

The little baby crying her brow so hot

Would this be a soul that was already aloft

Death’s hovering hands shadow her gaze

Her mother cries and pleads can she be saved

She is too young to see the grave

Pure love was all she ever gave

His heart is bleeding yet again

These moments threaten to turn him insane

The little flower begins to wilt

He refuses to let his tears be spilt

A brave mask he must always wear

To give some comfort to those in care

Ripples forming in the pool of souls

Angels warm space within the hull

Heavens angels light the water ahead

Baby’s eyes flutter as mother’s tears flow on her head

He feels the knot tighten within his cavity of loss

Another layer to hide with moss

Weathered armour he has to wear

Later alone he can only stare

Feeling the loss and despair

Wishing to release emotions so deep

His obedient eyes struggle with release

Seeping drops of salty tears

Will stain his face hardened with the years

His journey in their land with risk of danger and harm

But he refuses to feel a sense of alarm

On his voluntary missions to countries in need

His obligation and purpose fuels his stead

God bless the Doctor and give him strength

To fulfil his will to serve until he is spent.