Where drugs have failed and sepsis seeps,
and rank dank odours congregate,
this black necrotic tissue sleeps
as saline soaked cells re-hydrate.
As lunch is served on rancid plate
the starving larvae swoop to feast,
their endless appetite to sate
upon the failing flesh deceased.
As healing fibroblasts released,
slow-growing healing chrondocytes,
no need for doctor, surgeon, priest
no place for sacramental rites.
How blessed with healers, life festooned,
as friends debride our festered wounds.
~ This piece is dedicated to my friend Joanne Morris. She is a senior podiatrist who has specialised in diabetes and wound healing. (She’s a choreographer in her spare time, a fellow tiny pirate and also happens to make a stonkingly good gin and tonic).
In her professional life, in extreme cases, she uses maggot therapy in wound healing. She saves limbs and lives on a regularly basis. As my closest friend she has tended to my emotional wounds and has saved my sanity on many occasions. Whilst a poem about maggots might not seem like a very fitting tribute to a friend, it makes a tiny attempt to show my admiration for the work that she does and offers my heartfelt thanks for being a kind and loyal friend.
~ This utilises the rhyme scheme of a Spenserian Sonnet – abab bcbc cdcd ee – but is written in iambic tetrameter as oppose to iambic pentameter.