Thursday and I wake up after a crap nights sleep. I eventually get up and retreat to the recliner to rest. My partner brings me toast and a hot water. I’m stuck for the day with overwhelming fatigue and do nothing apart from some light garden watering, paying my car tax, booking the car in for a service, booking my 28 day injection at the GP and booking my hospital bloods for that same day as my jab. I also write a brief poem and update bits of the the new poetry collection blurb.

545
Words are my only weapon
as I run cycle nine.
My body inert
as it freezes 
under the drugs thumb.
A hollow shell 
that rings
when the world 
knocks. 
Rest is everything,
everything is rest
as I wait for recovery
and the reassurance 
that the poison 
is killing the cancer.
My blood is the spy
that reveals my state
and points me forward. 
Somewhere the words 
are primed 
and ready to 
be fired.

			545	09-07-2026		

As for the rest I nibble food, sip drinks and wait for the evening quarter final football match between France and Morocco. At the end of the game the Tesco order for tomorrow will get completed, my meds taken and I will try to get a night sleep. The heat wave continues, which makes getting to the garden centre to finish off the things that need doing an up hill task. It doesn’t help the fatigue either.