Some patients and their nearest decry the speed
a surgeon so revered passes sentence and is gone.
Life's lease renewed or cancelled, he delivers each
the same. 'More sympathy', we moan, begging tears
to mingle with our own, a bonus craved beyond
his fame - though we bargained only for the best.
Yet who'd presume he does not wish, after play
of all his powers, to be solely a herald of joy
guiding the revivified to Royal Parade,
god-speeding us homebound sealed in our cars,
tyres singing over tram tracks, the great nave
of elms eternally in verdant leaf, streams of gold
from a benevolent sun pouring through the canopy
to shine upon our progress, to dance upon our plans?