To A Lonely Colonel (P.S. Please Come Home)

Give me an era
                         In which boys are men
In which the silent armies of the night
Rob the cradles of the day.
Give me a time when war
Is more than a game for young mongrels.
When love is measured in heartbeats.

I want to be part
Of an age when mothers are fathers and
Babies are kings.
I want noise at nights
And noise at morning;
I want screams and shouts
So that I will never be alone.

They say each generation is left
With the mistakes of its forrbearer. I
Make sure to aim carefully
So my sons and daughters will have one fewer mistake
To clean up.

Hold my hand
Steady my arm.
The earth will burn red tonight
But it will not be from our blood.

I live in the prettiest place in the world

At least that’s what my license plate tells me.

 

And danced the sky on laughter-silvered wings

I’m not one for celebrity deaths, but damn, Heath Ledger. He’s one of my favourite actors, and I…I’ve written a character with him in mind. It’s silly, but if I write you, I steal a piece of your soul and give you mine in return. I love you.

Heaven’s a long way up. I hope you make it, Heath. I hope you’re happy.

Wandering Aengus

I went for a walk in the snow the other day. Sometimes I almost think I like getting dressed up for events more than actually attending them – almost. But it was good to be wrapped up in my black greatcoat (Peter Peter you were so sweet so smart so good. Peter Peter I loved you so but it was Edmund I couldn’t stop thinking of), toque pulled low over my ears and my gloves so sweetly incongruously pink. 

There are pictures. Not very good ones, I was worried about my camera getting too wet. Mostly there was dancing in empty alleys, slipping and sliding and twirling. Singing, too - but quietly, because that’s harder to keep secret. Throwing palmfuls of snow into the air and spinning under the induced blizzard and telling the quiet frozen air how it shook me all night long. 

And then watching my footprints as I headed home. Someone with heavy sensible boots had trod the same road but my prints wove in and out of the broken path, small narrow feet like a piper’s.  

Winter is the cruelest season, and the best.