Monday I heard someone hurt,
a woman breathing deeply, crying,
I felt sad, but happy
that at last she’d opened up.
Tuesday I met a closed, locked bedroom door.
All I could do was offer tea and chocolate,
a listening ear. I worried. Had I let him down?
Wednesday, I witnessed relief, joy, excitement.
A fourteen year old girl going home.
Bitter-sweet for me.
I won’t see her face now every day.
Thursday, in a group, a tearful woman told
How her friend’s child had disappeared.
Another woman without much English
couldn’t understand. How could I explain?
It was hard to find the words.
It was not my story.
Friday, Andrew was shouting, swearing, kicking.
I got out the coping box we’d filled with
stress balls, a teddy bear to throw,
comic books we’d made to help him understand.
This time Sonic Hedgehog calmed him down.
I felt good.
Saturday and Sunday, my family needed me.
All the usual stuff, lifts to clubs, friends round,
a house full of life and noise – and always, always,
housework needing done.
This poem was composed by a group of practitioners working in different areas.