Mary Seacole
The crimes of the Crimea,
Were more than genocide,
Even the lamp of Nightingale,
Held some darkness inside,
And though her deeds were worthy,
She must now share the glory,
With another, soldier's mother,
With a less recounted story,
I give you Mary Seacole,
A pioneering saint,
Who triumphed, against all the odds,
To treat the hurt and faint,
A virtuous, crusader,
Who tended either side,
With love, with true compassion,
No ego, or false pride.
The War Office denied her,
The right to help the lame,
So she set about the task herself,
And put them all to shame,
She raised the funds she needed,
And headed to the dying,
With only others on her mind,
No selfish thoughts, or crying.
A nurse by nature, Mary came,
And helped all those in need,
Entirely altruistic,
Without a trace of greed,
She had found her calling,
Her designated place,
The place she'd been refused from,
For no reason but her race.
So here's to Mother Seacole,
A legend, overlooked,
The one who was forgotten,
In the children's history books,
A shining star who shone her light,
Through war-torn army camps,
The epitome of humanity,
The lady without the lamp.