April

Effortlessly spreading butter from the dish
without mulling over which knife to use
the joy that there’ll be no doleful waiting time
for the stuff to melt sufficiently on the toast
without tearing it to shreds.

As it glides over my toast I am tickled
because I don’t have to switch on the heating
and wait for my breath to become invisible
as I try and meditate against the greyness
of my tea and the frigid day ahead.

The view from my window is in no way a threat
and that dirty old camper-van parked by the tree
is not played up to be a secret-service theatre
watching to see whether I am spying
on unremarkable neighbours I have no bones with.

The thought of opening the window
to let in air that might not smell of death
is an option that seems strangely familiar
and as I heave the ancient thing open
it makes the sound of a spirit released from a coffin.

In the last week I have marvelled at lovely fractures
little sparks of genuine freedom from my illness
but the real difference has been my response
and how incredible it is to enjoy these moments
without fearing that they will leave me.

They have already left but that’s OK
there are sure to be many more to come
so long as I stay safe and do the next right thing
there’s every chance that I will grow and blossom
into the person I was meant to be.

No system ever victimised me
I did that all by myself
and the hardness of my heart
was heated by the dragon inside me
now happily departed as a friend.