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Martin Cook

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Chris Speaks

I didn't notice my legs till people
crossed the road to avoid me,
and one yelled out:
Piss-artists should be locked up.

That evening Antonia said I walked on waves.

I gazed at honeysuckle in the garden,
and told her all was well,
but spoke through blotting paper.

Sometimes, strength returned
to my thighs and calves for a while,
my voice came clear again,
and my fears a memory.

I concentrated on my drafting work
till a colleague asked:
Had a drink or two, Chris?

I learned I'd no defence.
It was once called Creeping Paralysis;
now it's Multiple Sclerosis;
in short MS.

There were short intermissions,
when I could dance for joy;
but my limbs grew steadily weaker
and my speech more blurred.

Now I've time to watch, listen and take note;
while beloved Antonia does too much,
and I wonder whether her burden
will be greater still when I've gone.

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