First prize

After Diagnosis

By Fiona Ritchie Walker

Three months and all the ‘me’ words gone,
career, ambition, choice.
The ‘we’ times changed forever
the day we heard them say ‘terminal’.

There’s a new meaning to the word ‘care’.
We wear smiles as often as we can,
not brave, just knowing each day
can’t be wasted. Tick. Tick.

Our specialist subjects become
oxygen, exacerbation, wheelchair.
Favourite places are barred
by heavy doors, elaborate stairs.

The world shrinks. All the foreign coins
in holiday pockets and bags
lose their worth. We travel slowly
within a shrinking radius,

notice blackbirds and pigeons,
frog spawn. We cook onions
from neighbours’ allotments.
In the cinema we hold hands.