Resurrection in Wythenshawe
Like fresh air in a sick room
A visiting angel
With a wheelchair
To take me to the chapel
We fall into gentle conversation
Of this and that
As we move along
Endless corridors
All empty and cold
The chapel is lit up
With bright stained glass colours
And I weep
With morphine
With relief
And touched by the known
And the unknown
The kindness of strangers
To a troubled soul
Broken in body
And needing a spiritual resurrection
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