Adrift like the tides; surging
and then receding,
pulled by the moon's tug.
The moon is my life, soothing
and my death, playing with me
like a young cat with a mouse.
Day after day of the extra days
I have been given, I cannot decide
whether my life is a blessing,
a purring cat, the smile of a friend,
or a burden, the excoriation
of tender flesh; or whether
the crashing wave is exhilarating
or a threat; whether
long stretches of shallow water
are tedious, or a welcome relief.
This poem arose out of what I wrote last week. The difficulty is I can make “beauty a necessity”, but I'm having more difficulty making “necessity beautiful” (Ann Michaels).
I must say a word about the district nurse. I have known her quite a long time, like her enormously, and really value her willingness to tell the truth; the other nurses fudge.
It's just interesting how the same statement resonates differently: “you have passed my use by date”, “if you hadn't done yoga, you wouldn't be still alive”, ”the protein content of your lumbar puncture would not have suggested you would have lived past your sixties”.