"I’ve lost co-ordination in my hand." And the

world becomes a darkening storm of grim purpose;

racing down spiteful roads; pushing through the blur of

slow people to reach the one in the uniform;

"I think my wife’s had a stroke."

As I sit and talk

to you, as I sit alone and gasping in fear

in the night, as your long recovery plays out

in tiny, heart-bursting finger movements, fewer

words mis-spoken, our wise eyes reflect the horror

of what might have been. The handful of lucky breaks

and hasty choices that saved your life seem a too-

thin thread on which to hang all a man’s happiness.