Digging a trench, the spade,
brought out a blister on my hand.
My hands have softened over this past year,
I keep digging, the blister bleeds,
I see my blood, as if it is telling me,
you are no longer young,
your body is letting you down,
its letting me know.
A year ago last Spring,
my life was almost lost.
Doctors and nurses saved me,
and brought me back.
A small journey, of a kind,
a fast race through country lanes,
in an ambulance gurney,
the quiet rhythm of machines.
After a day working in the garden,
I look at my hand now,
showing a small blister,
nothing much, a scab is forming.
And I see my skin do what it must do,
what it always does
heal the wound, no matter how small.
I wish that my life could be the same.
Last Spring the horizon was clear.
Rob Cullen ©28.02.2021.