She's no spring chicken, my daughter,
and she never misses a visit.
Three buses, to get here,
and busy roads to cross.
I want to get well for her,
to see the last
of her faraway smile.
If I could just reach the bell.

She brushes my hair, my daughter,
and she never pulls a knot.
Three nurses, I get here,
and I make them cross.
I want to stay dry for them,
to call the last
of my cries for help.
If they could just reach out a hand.

She's no spring chicken, my daughter,
and I never see her weep.
Trusted Trinity, she brings here,
and her little silver cross.
I want to pray with her,
to plea for the last
of my childish traits.
If I could just reach home.

© Martin Hodges

NHS 'failing to treat elderly with care and respect'