It is a whirlwind in here



A Farewell For Nova Scotia

It is possible,
Because we are told
(are we not)
That everything is possible.
So, it is possible that, when
I turn on the porch light,
Bright enough to illuminate
The new, blue crocuses in
The front flower bed,
That that light
Go down to the shore,
Skip across the waves,
Slide past the Lighthouse light
On Partridge Island
And whirl over the waters
The Bay of Fundy.
My tiny light
(Remember, we are told
It is possible)
Takes a sharp,
So very sharp,
Left turn
To reach the wave-lapped
Coast of Nova Scotia
Near to the
Cumberland shore
And can be seen,
Not so far inland
By both the living
And the dead.
It brings inside it
Pain and remembrance
Prayer and hope
A tiny light
Shining as bright
As it can.
Since everything is possible.

Caught Dead In A Place Like This

If I were going to visit my mother on Mother’s Day, I would have to visit a cemetery. Same for my father, as they are side by side. I have done so before – the last time to make sure their tumbled gravestone had been righted. It had.

I have a friend – still happily above ground – who had once been admonished “… not to walk on graves.” She wondered why, as she said it would give her pleasure if she knew people were even dancing upon hers, and enjoying themselves.

And what’s a graveyard if you can’t enjoy yourself?

I have sometimes pondered whether it would be pleasant to live beside a graveyard. It makes great sense to me. That would almost be a guarantee of peace and quiet.

For myself, I had plans for a grand mausoleum. There was to be a reflecting pool and mourning benches, with ornate gargoyles around the sarcophagus. And a whole lot of other things. Wind chimes, for instance – there should be wind chimes. And treed arbours where people can gently weep.

However, my friend (not the one who wishes cotillions stepped-out upon her mortal bones), who was helping me plan this grand memorial garden, has – alas – herself died. And since it was she who was the mastermind behind my final resting place, I am somewhat at a loss.

As it is, I will be going to see her planted, with no mausoleum in sight. I suppose the irony is lost upon her. But maybe not.

So the reverential repose I wish is now up to me. I hope time doesn’t run out before I do.


Exterior of Milton Mausoleum, Markham Clinton, Nottinghamshire. Photo by James Darwin. Not to be reproduced without permission.

{Yeh – something like this.}


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