Pedro
Waiting for Mr Westaby to open up
my chest and cut into the very place
where anger, fear and joy had raced
for forty-six continuous years,
I was strangely uninvolved.
I didn't want to know which
bits went where, what drugs I'd have,
how long the scar would take to heal.
Forgotten friends and relatives
wrote words of love in cards and flowers,
but you and Chloe send a lamb
I take to Oxford in my bag.
Pedro, by the water jug
watching my improving breath,
shepherding me, day by day,
back to the life I haven't left.
Chrissie Williams, October 2004