You text me

‘how long have they said

till you’re all healed and fighting fit.’

As if there is only

summer and winter,

living and dying.

 

Instead of this long bumpy road

back to health with its tree roots

that break through tarmac

and trip me up at unexpected moments.

Its sly puddles and treacherous potholes,

its moments of spinning on ice.

The signposts crossed out and the sat nav

not even recognising its existence.

 

I don’t know how to tell you

about the stopping to pick blackberries,

the view of the lavender field

I never noticed before,

the moon hung a silver coin in a velvet sky.

 

I used to be suspicious of journeys,

not sure that I travelled particularly well.

But I’ve surprised myself

with how far I can limp.

One foot after the other,

each day with its twists and turns.

 

Not much to do with the doctor’s prognosis,

yet  I continue to send these postcards

for those who also find themselves

on this road to God knows where.