The Campaign, Simon Armitage

Because we famously speak as we find 
we said the word cancer out loud, called it a dragon, 
went looking for trouble and picked a fight. 
When it reared up in the liver we went into action, 
outflanked it, stoned it with tablets and pills. 
When it hid in the kidneys or blood we rootled it out, 
chased it into the open then shooed it over the hill. 

Whenever it raised its serpent’s head we slapped it 
hard in the mush with a giant charity cheque, 
baited it, lured it out of its lair then zapped it 
with photons, protons, compounds and hormones, 
messed with its atoms and cells till its forked tongue 
was tongue-tied, and tied its forked tail in knots. 

When it hunkered down in the prostate gland 
or made a nest for itself in the bladder or bowel 
we caught it on camera, waylaid it with magnets, 
tracked and traced it across the body’s ridings 
and wolds, through ginnels and snickets, 
then galloped against it with needles for lances, 
aimed wave after wave of invisible bullets 
into its bitter heart, bamboozled its dark soul. 

When it perched on the breast we clipped its wings 
with skilful hands; when it smouldered and skulked 
in the lungs or roared with its fiery breath 
we drowned it with thousands of voices, tamed it 
with words and songs. When it tainted the skin 
with its presence we pierced its scales, punctured 
its plated hide, flummoxed it right to the core. 

When it prowled in the mind we outfoxed it, 
killed it with kindness, ran rings around it 
with marathons, pram races, tea dances, car rallies, 
left it behind in the trolley dash, laughed in its face, 
stood shoulder to shoulder, held hands, linked arms, 
and flew a white rose on a flag wherever it fell.

But the job isn’t over, the work isn’t done; 
it broods and lurks in organs and genes, 
muscles in on our lives, so we push forward, 
keep slaying the dragon inside, keep Yorkshiring on.

Simon Armitage