The hospital is surrounded by a cordon of bright love

you can almost see it rising in the air

like vapour.

The hospital, a concrete sepulchre to love -

to trying, and to hope.

Outside a woman on her mobile phone

passes on the news.

Perhaps a baby has been born - or someone’s died.

Another rushes by with reddened eyes and bitten lip.

A group in dressing gowns sit smoking on a bench

like naughty ones at school

one hooked up to a plastic bag of fluid on a stand.

And all the ghosts are looking down.

Without love there would be no grief.

Its awkward presence proves that love is real.

And cascading round the hospital,

swirling round the grounds

all I can see is love.

Love swells like a shimmering dome

above the hospital.