More precisely, I finally admitted to myself that a sheaf of unfinished poems belonged together.
I started writing my book the year before last, or I started to write a poem with that title. It’s what the Japanese call the Milky Way and nobody in the west has ever heard the phrase without immediately starting to write a book. It was a low moment in my recent medical history, but once again the combined efforts of my family and the Addenbrooke’s crash-cart crew dug me out of the hole, so that I have emerged in time to witness the launch of my epic poem, The River In The Sky.īeautiful title, isn’t it? I can ask that rhetorical question in all modesty because I didn’t think of it. I myself arrived by ambulance, strapped down against any tendency to slide on to the floor like a speeding custard. U ntil a few days ago, I was a patient in Addenbrooke’s hospital, here in Cambridge, while a busload of nurses and doctors strove to persuade my temperature to stop acting like a wobbling yo-yo.
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