Not Dead Yet

'The true meaning of life
is to plant trees under whose shade
you do not expect to sit.'
― Nelson Henderson

He recites the meds he's on
(omitting the fags and brandy)
- antibiotics, steroids, morphine.
Poor man. I've just been
to see him. He talks,
when he has enough breath,
as if death is not on the horizon,
as if he still has a future.
If he has, great. I'm not so sure.
He's thin. Bone and skin.
Depressing. But, after
visiting him, I leave
feeling younger. Fitter.

Up the hill I stride,
rejuvenated,
find the climb easier than usual
and arrive home feeling grateful
for functioning limbs, lungs, kidneys, heart.
I tell myself that from now on I'll treasure
every healthy second before life gets worse;
I'll bathe in happiness and pleasure
until I get diagnosed with something bad,
until I'm told I've got a tumour
or I have a fall,
and then another fall,
and so on. But I'll fail
to savour every second.
Of course I will. Impossible
to keep that level of appreciation going.
Some minor thing will happen
and self-pity will beckon.
Of course it will. But until then,
right now, at this special time,
while I'm feeling fine,
I'll appreciate and celebrate this moment.
Come, sit beneath this tree with me
and let's thank whoever planted it.
Here's to good health. And joy.
Yours. Mine.