Poem - Pentecost Sunday

Pentecost Sunday

The doctor prayed and danced in the glade
Sought inspiration from above.
‘You’ll heal the sick.’ He’d heard the call.
He dreamed of a Queen with surgeon’s gloves.


He wrote the words, he gained the funds
The trials were a great success
A patient was referred to him
She came on time, severely dressed


Around her neck she wore a cross
Enthused, he felt the urge to share
‘I saw a queen with kindest hands
she’s guiding my attempts to care.’


She crossed herself, brought out her book
‘All wisdom is contained in here.
And Satan comes in many forms,
Your queen may be someone to fear.’


She left, and ventured home to die
The surgeon re read John 16
And wondered at the state of mind
Of one who mistrusts all things green.

Copyright Peter Fairbrother

poems, songs, and short stories