This was a poem I wrote as part of National Poetry Writing Month in April. (http://athspoemaday.blogspot.com/) I thought it would fit nicely in this blog too. It deals with just one aspect of the proposed changes to the NHS.
Day 17 - Just a Doctor
The dusty street, the open train, the much frequented highway,
a mountain trail, a ferry boat , an inner city byway.
These he had taken, by and large, to reach this destination,
but now he faced the daunting task of filling registration,
in which he has to prove his admin skills for new positions.
What should he put for marketing, or double-paged accounting?
He'd just got on with his own job, left others to the counting.
He'd done it well or so he thought, saved many a thread-hung life.
He had a calming presence and was steady with a knife.
They didn't seem to care 'bout this, they wanted core ambitions.
Around the world he'd travelled, lending care where it was needed.
In times of epidemic, his advice was often heeded.
But this no longer mattered within England so it seems,
where doctors had to deal with daily management of teams.
He wanted yet, to come back home, grown tired so of missions.
His mind balked at the prospect of a quarterly report,
and handling area boundary changes in the district court.
Why should a surgeon trained for years, do something else completely,
when those who've qualified in sums, or admin do it neatly?
There doesn't seem much logic in this hindrance to physicians.
He put his pen down, rubbed his eyes, and thought about the future.
How now could be the time to settle down and maybe tutor.
But he's a doctor dammit, and there's many sick to see,
and all he really wants to do is practise surgery.
I guess he'll have to do it with extraneous conditions.
a mountain trail, a ferry boat , an inner city byway.
These he had taken, by and large, to reach this destination,
but now he faced the daunting task of filling registration,
in which he has to prove his admin skills for new positions.
What should he put for marketing, or double-paged accounting?
He'd just got on with his own job, left others to the counting.
He'd done it well or so he thought, saved many a thread-hung life.
He had a calming presence and was steady with a knife.
They didn't seem to care 'bout this, they wanted core ambitions.
Around the world he'd travelled, lending care where it was needed.
In times of epidemic, his advice was often heeded.
But this no longer mattered within England so it seems,
where doctors had to deal with daily management of teams.
He wanted yet, to come back home, grown tired so of missions.
His mind balked at the prospect of a quarterly report,
and handling area boundary changes in the district court.
Why should a surgeon trained for years, do something else completely,
when those who've qualified in sums, or admin do it neatly?
There doesn't seem much logic in this hindrance to physicians.
He put his pen down, rubbed his eyes, and thought about the future.
How now could be the time to settle down and maybe tutor.
But he's a doctor dammit, and there's many sick to see,
and all he really wants to do is practise surgery.
I guess he'll have to do it with extraneous conditions.
