Ken's Poetry

The Healer

She came along the line
touching their temples,
connecting heaven and earth
like lightening.
They fell like trees.
Her helpers caught them
under the arms,
lowered them gently
and laid them out
among the hassocks
like corpses
to be identified.

Holding back,
afraid to stand my
ailments in the line,
I marvelled
at their gullibility,
wondered how
they could surrender
control to this catalyst
in God’s name.

Old John who believed
in everything mystical,
mediums, ghosts and Gods,
took her palm-print on his brow
but never swayed.
One of the few left standing
in her whirling wake.