Save your applause

We are not valiant; heroes seldom,
Nor robots, immune from error,
Nor Belsen commandants, who call ‘life’ or ‘death’
For pleasure, in some twisted game.

But human, just as you,
With lovers, parents, children,
Flaws a-plenty.

Would that we were mighty springs,
Resilient under any strain,
Always wise as Solomon,
Free of fear and hurt, yet full of compassion,
Bouncing back for ever.

Instead, we are but fiddlers’ strings,
Steel wound tight
To keep us in tune.

Even mighty springs can fail, strings will snap,
Loaded beyond their limits.

So speak the names of those who broke,
Their cores unwound.
Scarred, misshapen, spent.
No manufacturing flaw,
Wound too tight, too long.

The fiddler calls, ‘New strings!’ and plays them in,
Sound better than before.
The broken ones forgotten, discarded;
Collateral damage.

What if we, Nye Bevan’s child,
Are, too, a giant spring,
A million strands of purest gold
Kept whole by one another.

But you, with such malign intent,
Have stretched and weakened us:
Our purpose, betrayed;
Our autonomy, corroded;
Our competency, questioned;
Our connections to others, intentionally fractured.
Would you replace us with brass?

Our collective pulse is weakened.
Save your applause,
Let us heal.
Give us the people, the time, the space, and the tools
To ply our craft, as we know how,
Kept whole by one another, those we love,
And the people that we serve.

Harry McNaughton