31 July 2026
His name belies his formidable powers
The big man with the tiny shiny knife
Who sits astride into the long hours
Saving my wrist and arm from painful strife
The writer’s wrist, the Carpal Tunnel blight
Affects the potter and the weaver too:
We toil to shape, to match, to second sight
Dawn, noon and evening though the moon be blue
But everything Chris does is guided by
The woman who walks miles every day
Keeping his watch pristine although the sky
Thunders with clouds she’s always there to stay
Such teamwork is the stuff of magic bonds
Preventing pain from tightening its grip
With quiet voices they, with modern wands,
Predict and cut and cure, and never slip
Beyond the pale to kiss the frightened skin
Instead they mop the blood and stem its flow
Renew their promise and call next of kin
If anything goes wrong. And yet I know
They are the best because they give their heart
Coping with those they loathe as well as like
Watching and waiting, for theirs is an art,
Driven by patience, sealed without a spike
Or lull in concentration. Come, admire
Their continuity, their private zeal
Their planning for next month and those ahead
And celebrate with me. Let church bells peal.
For saving my writing life and so much more,
small words of gratitude will never be enough
A pair of elderly hands, beautifully captured by
Varavin 88’s Shutterstock image, is held and
protected by a young admirer. But that is not
nearly enough when wear and tear set in.