Many moons ago, when he was told that he might have cancer of the blood, the Poet had laughed his heart out….almost sticking his finger at the doctor….knowing fully well that his body was in harmony and the pronouncement was unfounded.
I was talking to him yesterday, and he confessed, this time without that belligerent bellow….that his biggest disappointment as a Poet, had been his failure to read That metaphor correctly. He was referring to the same pronouncement…and its subtle undertones.
He spoke, avoiding my eye completely, and said –“You know you are dying of leukaemia, when you recognize that your very own Blood is out to get your grain.”
He seems to have detected it in the accelerated blast phase 
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