by Paul John Mccafferty

Always she moves me to distraction.

I float amongst hypnotic stars,

coloured by a billion rainbows spilt across

that land of fantasy, she always morphs or flows

around like we are anglers in some torrentuous river.

Cannot but love her, Sister Isis of the moons

veil and the wine of the blood of the vein of the

rose. She of the song of the song behind

songs. The reason i have climbed

the hill, the reason i have raised the

flames, the reason i have loved and

lost and why i love her still.

See her and shake all foolish dream from

your heads my brothers. Queen of nights,

and fruit trees, and everywhere that water

falls and every wind thats ever blown

asparagus and thyme. Give one love it's eternal

assemblance. Walk each ragged pathway while you can.

I am but her loyal servant and you must choose each

shining blessing for your self. In love with every drop of

dew and how she sways the grasses and how she

moves and burns my lips and leaves me longing still.

Seven years whittled down to that last
drab evening in Nova-Scotia. We had
tentatively discussed the three foot crack
in our large iceberg. Two strangers, scared
to head off into warmer climes. We were
with a gaggle of your Canadian buddies,
heading up-hill to some re-knowned
Lobster joint.

You legged ahead on those stilt legs
with two cigar men, whispering your plans
to keep me. I slow footed through that Glasgow
like place, arm in arm with your kind friend.
I almost put my foot down but having keen
vision, I saw the lump beneath my foot.

A tiny little bird, something
like a robin. I picked it up.
It was, as I recall, dark brown-ish.
Faint yellow at the chest.

I held it close, hoping the flow
of body heat would help to warm it.
Stroking all the while, with my thumbs,
the nape of its neck. We yelled you back,
you came to within ten feet, going
Ahh, it'll be fine, put it in the bush, come on!

You darted back up the hill with the
hoagie chewing businessmen and
I felt a mad affray go on inside
its tiny breast. I kissed its perfect
little head. It went limp.
Died right there in my helpless
hands while you stood at the crest,
flicking your hair, hatching your plans.

I hailed its buoyant spirit on,
Looking up, as another, chirping,
circling, singing madly, swooped
around three times, then took off
over the bay, eastwards, out across the Atlantic.