Birthday:

I look around me and my old world,
The one I grew up in,
And was formed by,
Is becoming jaded,
Or, indeed, has disappeared.

My heroes are old, some now pathetic,
Or they are dead, and often times
Their memorial is people trying to sully their name,
Or belittle their achievements.
Sir Winston Churchill is one such.
He was, and remains, a giant.

The world is now, I believe, a better place, however,
Than the one in which I flowered,
(Or turned into a weed!)
But I regret the loss of many things,
Becoming nostalgic for much which I took for granted,
Which yes, includes a whole different way of life
Which would be unrecognisable to most.

I can, too, look back on certain decisions,
And needs must make an effort not to get caught
In some useless trap of regrets, maybes and if onlys.
I am obliged, also, to wonder at what I have achieved.
It is not always that comfortable.
I have achieved a fair amount of good
In my efforts to be of service, I am told,
But I could have done so very much more.

I also feel a touch of guilt concerning
Just how much I loved my work.
I do not know that it is right that I was so lucky.
Mondays were my favourite days,
And I was able to make a difference.
But my free time was also rich and joyous.
It doesn’t see quite fair.

I am guilty, too, for loving too much.
I have adored and been loved by
Some extraordinary women.
I did not deserve their love,
For always, until now,
When my good fortune knows no bounds,
I eventually left them,
And caused so much pain
It appals me to think about it.

And now, in fifty days,
I can no longer run and hide from the fact
That I am an old man.
I have always either not been interested,
Or positively enjoyed birthdays.
This was especially so when I was sixty five.
I have burned the candle at both ends and in the middle
When I have not been working,
With doctors and Ali having said whilst doing that too,
And reaching sixty five, an age which through the
History of humanity has been denied to most,
Was truly a wonderful privilege which I didn’t deserve.

And when I consider people I have loved
Who didn’t make it, I feel wretchedly guilty as well,
Especially for poor, dear and lovely Barbara Magee.

Sixty six had a sort of symmetry which
Seemed somehow rather jolly,
But in fifty days I am sixty seven, if I’m lucky,
And the age, my creaking body,
Pain which has become an old friend
And the mirror tell me that which I
Cannot run from. I am old.

Understand me, though I worry about the method
Of my death – preferably in my sleep after doing
Serious damage to a bottle or three of
Remy Martin VSOP,
With family and friends,
And not like poor Magee –
I am extraordinarily curious to know
More about the next phase after this,
Where I’m confident some of my questions
Will be answered, though not all.
For all answers I will need many
More cycles of life; maybe eternally,
And I hope I can make them useful,
And rich in learning, mine and others,
And find some way to be of service.

No, I’m worried about timing.
You see, I’m not ready.
There is so much more I want and need to say.
As Keats said, considering mortality,
(And no, in no other way am I comparing myself
To the incomparable genius Keats)
‘When I have fears that I may cease to be;
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain’ etc.

And my body is a bit of a wreck
Which is partly my fault,
So time is becoming a bit less likely to be in
Anything other than short supply.
Thus I set my alarm and rise at 7.00 each morning,
Do my best to carpe the hell out of the diem,
And feel most melancholy if I do not write
A reasonable amount each day – I am becoming
Somewhat driven since retirement has allowed
Me time to explore more fully the world and
The inside of my quantum computing mind,
With it's entangled and tunnelling particles,
And to study things other than education.

I also know I need to make an effort to be published,
Or else I am writing for the very few
Or, no doubt, often times for myself.
(As, ironically, could be the case with this!)
Do you know how many people have had
Their first serious works published when they
Were my age? No, nor do I, quite possibly because
They are few and far between, or possibly non-existent.
And in my case there’s lots of it!

Going back though, to the nostalgia which also
Confirms that I am an old man,
I miss good manners. I don’t mind swearing – indeed it is
Often a colourful addition to speech - but I mind the lack
Of please and thankyou and good morning, and smiles,
And don’t like not feeling right about holding doors
For ladies or offering my seat. I miss little bows,
And people ignoring the telephone whilst they are
In the middle of talking to somebody else.

What’s with that, by the way? You’re chatting
With somebody, or are maybe earnestly deep in
Conversation and nearly always, even if they don’t know
Who it is, when the phone rings, people answer it,
Which says what, exactly? It says they’d rather talk
To somebody they don’t even know rather than continue
To talk to you; and when I’m talking with somebody
And the phone rings and I ignore it, they ask me if
I’m not going to answer it? Does this mean they’d
Rather I talked with somebody – anybody! –
Else and not then be talking with them?

And no, I don’t want to wear something
Pink to a funeral. I want to wear a suit and black tie
Because I won’t be feeling ‘pink’, I’ll be feeling crap,
And the old rituals are there for a purpose,
To deal with some of the difficulties in life
Through the use of different kinds of ceremony.

While I’m on a roll, what’s happened to some sort
Of loyalty to the meaning of words for communication?
Example: ‘We’re getting engaged next August’?
When two people agree that they intend to marry,
Doesn’t that mean they’re actually engaged then, at that time,
You know, engaged to marry? You can then only get engaged
Next August if you’ve been unengaged
And then spontaneously
Decide next August you’re going to marry ...
Or you get engaged to somebody else.

Leaving all that aside, in my now admitted old age,
I am delighted by the reduction of violence, worldwide.
Over the period of the battle of the Somme it was almost
Deemed acceptable that 60,000 Tommies died. Now a
Whole town turns out to show their respect when even
A single body bag returns from a theatre of war.

Many people feel that because one person can inflict
Huge violence now, say by flying an aeroplane
Into a building as opposed to somebody a few
Centuries ago who could stab a few people,
That the world is more violent. It isn’t.
If you don’t believe me, read Steven Pinker,
‘The Better Angels Of Our Nature’ or similar.

People older than me – those few left! – and the previous
Generation used to say there was no vandalism and
Mugging during the war. They’re wrong, and anyway, the
The ultimate vandalism was 60 million dead,
Gas chambers, run, incidentally, by a Christian nation,
And the fact that it was okay to bomb cities
Killing civilians. Isn’t that the ultimate terrorism?

If folk do it now they’re dragged in front of the
Court of Human Rights or wherever.
Crimes against Humanity.
Isn’t that what all modern warfare is?

Anyway, all that aside as well, one of the many positives
As I have developed a longer perspective on life
Is just how delightful it is that the younger generation,
Which most certainly include my 3 sons and their partners,
Are infinitely kinder, more thoughtful and caring,
Innovative and generally enjoyable to be with,
Civilised people who are so much less boring, conventional, 
Racist, bigoted, homophobic, self-righteously judgemental,
And so much more aware of their responsibilities to their planet
And their fellow creatures than mine, and allow one to
Have real optimism for humanity in the future just so long
As the present generation of (mainly) old men don’t
Destroy the whole kit and caboodle!

So, there you have it, for now, at least, and
I’m wasting time on this self-indulgence
When I have several poems, sagas, the third book
In a trilogy and another two in my head and
One that needs a rewrite to finish, so I’ll stop the tirade.

Don’t wish my Happy Birthday this time please.
Accepting I’m an old man doesn’t benefit
By people stirring my confusion.

Oh, and by the way, no I don’t wish I was younger again.
There’s the irony; the very idea appals me.

When you’re young, somehow you think it’s
Rather clever of you, and you pity the elderly.
The clever thing is actually to get old,
And not to pity, or indeed envy, the young,
But to wish them their joy of life,
Just as you have yours,
And be humble enough to count your blessings;
They’re not guaranteed, for instance,
Sixty six and nearly a year so far,
Whereas you have been, or similar.

I enjoy being me, the age I am,
I just don’t like some of the baggage that goes with it.
Everything comes with a price, eh.
It’s really, really, really worth it though!
Peace, love and happiness to you all.

The Summer Of 69

From the window he saw below the patchwork of little fields, sewn together by blind faery folk who felt in their souls the random beauty they created.  On the tannoy came the usual pre-landing announcements which should have, in all honesty included, “We’re about to land at Aldergrove airport.  Please put your watch back 50 Years.”  It was the middle of August, 1969 and he was back in God’s Own Country to meet an old and distressed friend.  We’ll call him Tom.

Tom shambled over, a smile of delight on his weary, lined-before-time, bearded face, gave him a great bear hug as they greeted, and as dusk lay a soft veil across the land they drove in his old A35 van – a splendid pink and black it was, hand painted by him and his dear Papa, using a roller and brush, and his pride and joy which he was delighted to see Tom hadn’t crashed in his absence – and piled into the nearest hostelry, there to imbibe a pint or three of Guinness and to open discussions on Tom’s woes.  That done, they returned to the luxury of his limo – sure, isn’t everything relative? -  and headed along the Cave Hill road.  Before they started the descent, what they saw obliged him to pull over, and they stared down.

In the darkness the city lights gave it a kindly, enchanted, almost magical look where the Wee Folk would not be out of place.   The image was disturbed though, with a scar down between, as near as they could reckon, the Shankill and Springfield Road, a line of flame wild-dancing, smudged and blurred by the smoke, accompanied by the occasional flat crack of rifle fire.  This was not like the usual bonfires of 11^th July night, for he’d seen those from this very spot and heard the lambegs thundering their disturbed passion.  No, there had been plenty of rioting and burning out this summer, here in Belfast, in Derry, Newry, Crossmaglen, Dungannon, Coalisland, Dungiven and the lovely town of his birth, Armagh.  The Province seemed to be alight and one was obliged to wonder if that fire could ever be extinguished.

The burning scar, they were to later learn, was Bombay Street.  All of it.  To their shame, the army and the RUC had done little to nothing to stop it as Protestants had petrol bombed and fired all the houses and the wee cobblers shop, ironically owned by a Protestant.  A sniper, too, had been taking pot shots, killing one of the folk trying to help with the evacuation.  From the 12^th to 17^th over just 6 days, 8 people were to die, 750 were injured, 150 Homes were burnt out and nearly 2000 people evacuated.  The ‘Troubles’ had started and weren’t to end for another 30 years.

They descended to the city and drove carefully, having to turn back at barricades, avoiding carefully those areas where they knew ‘their kind’ would not be welcome.  Here they would see a man in a Balaclava pointing a Sten, there another with an old .22, a faithful .303 or a shotgun.  They saw, too, the RUC and soldiers, all seemingly very young, twitchy and more like as not to shoot first if there was anything dodgy or suspicious about their movements.   That tension was also to become part of daily life, and 3500 folk would die and countless others be maimed.

It’s said you can take a man out of Ulster but you can’t take Ulster out of the man.  It’s over 40 years since he lived there full time and he can tell you that it’s true.  Sure, he still won’t sit with his back to a door, and he assiduously, drunk or sober, keeps an eye on strangers or ‘suspicious’ (read ‘any’!) packages, but the reason you can’t take Ulster out of the man is not because of that, however.  It’s because of the great kindness.  The hearts of Ulster folk, Catholic or Protestant, Nationalist or Unionist, are the world’s biggest and most loving.

You have to understand, nearly everyone wanted peace, wanted to be able to get on with folk around them, but because of the actions of very few, on both ‘sides’, as the Troubles deepened it became dangerous and possibly fatal to hang about with  folk who were not on ‘your side’ or go into their areas.  And though the Troubles are now hopefully over, these big hearted people still send their kids to Protestant or Catholic schools – 51% to Catholic Schools and at least 38% to Protestant ones.  Great progress!  That’s bound to help Ulster society become integrated! 

Like they say, a child is not born racist; they aren’t born bigots, either, but that which you do not know in a divided society you grow up treating with suspicion.  In the Six Counties it is especially so because of those echoes of more dangerous times, the peace walls – though some have come down there are a still 108 of them to this day, varying in length from a few a few hundred yards to 3 miles - and grand graffiti on many a gable end, and continued avoidance of certain places because of ‘them’.  In truth, to this day, he’s pretty certain he’d never walk down the Falls if he had a choice – and he knows that’s more than a little sad, as the Falls is full of folk with hearts that are grand, warm and welcoming.  His natural desire to avoid violence would also preclude him attending a Linfield Glentoran ‘derby’.

Tragically, too, that legacy of sectarian suspicion is reinforced by the fact that over 80% of people still live in areas which can be defined loosely as Protestant or Catholic.  Interestingly those who sit in parliament and we laughingly call a Government don’t know that any of the above is dangerous, it appears, or they believe somehow it does not lead to prejudice.  They do nothing to discourage ghettos and wildly encourage faith schools in England, living as they appear to in an alternate universe, on the principle that it’s bound to help people integrate into society if they attend Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, Anglican etc. education establishments and don’t get to know any of their peers in other groups, don’t get to learn how much they are alike.  Of course, they won’t get a chance to know that though.   Why?  Because the Government see how well educating children separately in Ulster has worked over the generations.  Not.  Morons!  When will this absurdity end!

So, is there anything one can do about this?  Yes.  One can rant, like I’m doing, and one can oppose the setting up of any more faith schools in the UK and ensure we don’t send our children to one, or do our best to ensure our grandchildren don’t.  I say this with amongst my headships a Church Of England school and an essentially Muslim school which I eventually amalgamated with another to form a Muslim faith school.  Am I a hypocrite?  Maybe.  Somebody was going to do it and I reckoned I would do it ‘better’ than some folk.  In those jobs I did my best to engage all the kids and as many parents as possible with people of other faiths, and ensured the curriculum really focussed on the issues of sameness across people of all faiths and none, and the common humanity which united us.

You in the UK who read this, indeed wherever you are, don’t believe that as politicians try to divide and rule us, setting one group off against another, that Ulster’s situation with the Troubles couldn’t happen where you are.  It could.   It might be different groups, different bigotries, different ignorant hatreds but the results will be the same … and if you educate your children in a ‘faith’ school, they may end up being part of the problem.   Think about it.

Oh, and by the way, if you agree with me you could always share this.  You never know, somebody might read it and have a change of heart.  One must hope.

http://egertonchesney.blogspot.fr/

Farewell To A Giant:

A giant has stepped from the stage,

Passing behind the curtain,

Out of sight,

Standing first in the wings,

Seeing all that is happening still,

Within the play of life,

But no longer part of it,

His active role complete.

This giant was a Yorkshire giant,

(And it’s hard to get more gianty than that!)

A big, robust and gentle giant,

With a big, robust and loving heart,

A bear’s big, robust hug,

And a deep robust laugh,

Which started way down low inside him,

And burst out into the room,

Like a shower of joy,

And all around,

The main characters,

And the bit players,

Would bask in the happiness drops.

He watches over them now,

Free at last of pain,

As Andrea, his beloved wife,

And his extraordinary sons,

Continue the play,

Treading the boards tentatively

Without the lead actor,

Uncertain now of the plot,

Improvising, supporting each other,

As strong main characters can,

And leading the remaining cast,

Making it up as they go along.

Slowly, as time passes,

The giant will move,

First down to the front row,

Withdrawing next to the balcony,

And then to the upper balconies,

Aptly named ‘the Gods’.

He will watch over them,

This most caring, loving giant,

Perhaps like their guardian angel,

Finding it hard to let go,

But wisely learning,

As the remaining cast

Start to make more certain steps,

That their sorrow, confusion

And anger will diminish,

Just as it should,

For he crafted well,

He and his most dear, true love,

And they will pour themselves

Into each other and the next generation,

And the next,

Each of which will carry,

Part of that which made this giant

Such a unique and glorious soul.

And he will recognise

From his new place of perspective,

That in the great scheme of things,

They will prevail;

And, watching over them still,

Know that all will be well,

And that the time will come,

As it comes to all,

When their circle of life is done,

They too will be gathered in,

And as he has been,

Embraced by the Loving Mystery,

Which follows the final act.

They too will leave the stage,

And he will be standing there, waiting,

A gentle smile upon his face,

And he will fold his giant’s arms

Around them again,

And remind them of his giant’s love,

In that wondrous place where it is everlasting.

And others, whether their parts were small,

Or absolutely central,

They will know that

They were privileged,

Privileged to know him,

A unique and extraordinary,

Larger than life,

Matchless spirit,

And his passing on

Leaves their lives –

Our lives -

Impoverished but,

Let us not forget,

Richer still by far,

Because for a little while,

Or a lot,

We were lucky;

We knew a giant,

Such a wonderful,

Well loved,

Yorkshire, gianty giant.

Adieu Mark; à bientôt.

Considering Moral Imperatives:

He looked up from the report,

His eyes dancing round his waiting colleagues. 

He held the casting vote so he had to be seen

To have carefully thought things through. 

There was the added complication

Of intense media interest –

Clever of whomsoever it was who contacted them! -  

And it was increasingly controversial. 

He had to ensure it didn’t become toxic

And damage the company’s good name.

“Well, I’ve carefully read the minority report

And know that the views expressed therein

Are carefully thought out,

And those who wrote it are

Sincere and well-meaning.”

He paused to smile sweetly at the little cabal.

“You have obviously studied these creatures

Over an extended period of time

And feel that they are sentient,

Have purpose,

And higher feelings.

I will deal first with the suggestion of sentience. 

One of the most emphasised points in support

Is their use of primitive tools. 

Many species use tools of different sorts;

I grant that these tools are more advanced than most. 

It’s true, too, that they seem to have cohesion and

They cooperate to form a complex society. 

Many creatures are capable of cooperation, however,

Building sophisticated structures and

Clearly delineating different roles.

Consider here the bees and ants.

Birds and, of course,

A broad range of primates,

Can also cooperate and use tools.

It has often, nonetheless, been suggested in this case

That though individually these creatures have little intelligence, 

Collectively, as a form of gestalt,

They have some sort of over-mind

Which gives their society a real purpose. 

There is no evidence to support this view.   

No purpose has been discerned other than survival.”

He paused slightly, coughed and sipped his drink

For dramatic effect, inwardly gently mocking himself.

He had always had a flair for the theatrical!

“I feel, therefore,

That there is insufficient evidence to support the view

That because they are busy they are sentient,

And have a sense of purpose. 

Further, I feel that my opinion is confirmed

By their total lack of higher feelings,

As evidenced by the way they treat and

Kill each other en masse,

Vast, untargeted slaughters,

Killing old, young,

Combatant and non-combatant,

With equal lack of discrimination.

Finally, I site their apparently total disregard

For damage to their local

And wider environment,

Fouling, as they do, their own nests,

Damage which will eventually, if unchecked,

Lead to the destruction of many of their larger habitats,

And possibly lead to species self-extinction. 

It is my decision, therefore,

That though we unfortunately

May hasten terminal damage,

There are other similar species elsewhere,

And our energy needs fairly outweigh

Any moral imperative to conserve these creatures …”

He found himself unable to avoid adding,

With slightly acid tongue,

As he again glanced up

At the troublesome,

‘Do-good’, clique …

“Cuddly and cute though some may see them!”

In more measured tones he then concluded.

“This project presents the cleanest,

Most efficient way,

To access much needed hydrogen and helium

With a minimum need for clean-up.  

I vote therefore in favour.”

…………………………………………………………………..

Shielded against the intense heat,

AIs maneuvered the great, brilliant-white tankers,

Carefully moving close, but not too close,

Giving the appearance of a sharp-cut diamond girdle,

And extended their lances deep into

The G V yellow-dwarf star,

At around 4.6 billion years old,

Ripe to the point of perfection,

And as they slowly drew its lifeblood,

Its orbiting planets imperceptibly,

But inexorably grew darker. 

It would not be long before vegetation began to fail,

And the much discussed creatures on planet 3

Started to fight for diminishing resources. 

......................................................................................................

Arrogant and care-less humanity had failed the tests,

A triple fail, for intelligence, purpose and empathy,

And was set to die for the greater good,

To enable a clean energy project to proceed

In a galaxy too few had tried to comprehend.

…………………………………………………………………...

And God sighed, gathering into his loving arms

The billions of homeless souls,

Once again.

Created he then a new universe

And, in deep love and hope,

Once more spake he thus

Into the darkness:

“Fiat lux!”

Hero’s Return – a sonnet:

We count the body-bags as they come home,
And grieving widows face new poverty,
After the corpse is shuffled to his tomb,
And she becomes a liability.
The army give her a support package,
But they leave home, school, their locality,
And round broken hearts tight wind a bandage,
A soft shield against life’s cold cruelty.
It’s much better now than it used to be.
They received a telegram at the door,
If lucky the vicar would come for tea,
With kind friends who had seen it all before.
A hero’s widow’s lot is a hard one,
Not much that’s good comes from using a gun.

Youthful Dissonance:

The cow stood, leaning slightly against the gate and looked him

Straight in the eye.  Very slowly, as though speaking to an idiot

She asked him what he thought he was doing, staring at the herd

Like that?  As he stood there, somewhat surprised, his mouth

Slightly open, she spoke again, enquiring whether he was deaf

Or stupid?  He shook his head, rather at a loss, but managed to

Pull himself together enough to tell her he was just passing by, 

And apologise for any offence given, saying it was unintended.

She nodded and then told him to just bugger off and mind his 

Own business, and that cows most certainly weren’t part of that.

He bobbed his acceptance, straightened his hat as opposed to his

Dignity and walked on with what he hoped was a touch of style.

As he did so he could hear the unmistakable sound of the herd

Laughing at him behind his back.  That was really unnecessary!

…………………………………………………………………..

She sighed, staring at the exquisite, freshly cut flowers she had 

So carefully arranged in the vase just moments before.  The now 

Drooping stems and half dead blooms made her think them like 

Elderly aristocrats bent by time, their faces blurred recordings of 

Former, youthful glory.  There had been another temporal slip.   

They appeared to be happening more frequently, but she could 

Not be sure.  She would probably miss any which occurred as 

She was sleeping.  She wondered, yet again, why it was always 

Happening to her but apparently nobody else.  When she tried 

Talking to others about it, they obviously thought her crazed!

She rubbed her eyes tiredly.  When she opened them again she 

Saw a vase of flowers which were in full bloom, their fragrance 

Filling the room.   She smiled.  This, she remembered clearly, 

Was the display she’d made when her twin sons were about to 

Celebrate their fourth birthday.  Now, this would be wonderful!

…………………………………………………………………...

They stood, awestruck, watching the waterfall cascade up the 

Cliff face to the lake where earlier they had seen a Portuguese 

Submarine torpedo a large brigantine proudly baring the name 

Mary Celeste.  Their tour guide told the hushed group that it 

Had not always been thus, and it was said that in bygone days 

Waterfalls had fallen, which is why they were not, as neat logic 

Would clearly dictate, called waterups.  The group collectively 

Shook their heads in disbelief, and turned to lumber back to the

Waiting coach.  They entered, took their seats, placing their feet 

On the peddles, and on the guides sharp call of, “1, 2, 3, go!” all 

Pressed down in unison and the charabanc lurched forward and 

In so doing woke the drivers, smartly dressed but lugubrious 

Bears, both heavy smokers, taking it turn about to roll cigarettes 

Which on ignition magically sent clouds of sparks heavenward. 

…………………………………………………………………...

He looked at his wife and could see she wasn’t happy.  He asked 

Himself if he’d done anything wrong and decided not.  He next 

Asked himself if he had the time to listen to whatever it was that 

Was troubling her, scanning the mental horizons for clues as to 

Whatever it might be.  Checks all made, he went for it, asking if 

She was somewhat troubled.  To his high relief she said she was 

But it probably was just something she was allowing to get out 

Of proportion.  He waited and then softly asked if talking about 

It would help.  It transpired she was worried about young Jah.  

Oh, he was working hard at his creations and he showed many 

Skills well in advance of his years but … she paused.  Sensibly 

He, as expected, asked her, but what?  With that encouragement 

She continued, saying that she was immensely proud of him, 

And he showed a real talent, ensuring that their family business 

Would be in safe hands in perpetuity but … he did weird things 

With his creations, constantly putting the creatures in bizarre 

Situations to study how they’d respond, and she wondered if he 

Wasn’t being somewhat cruel.  He smiled reassuringly and told 

Her not to worry, it was just a phase male gods went through 

And he’d for sure settle down in another billion years or so and 

Eventually leave them to develop naturally.  She nodded, rather 

Relieved, and returned to observing the creatures in her newest 

Work learning to cooperate and domesticate animals.  She was 

Really well-pleased with her latest creation she had named a cat.

She’d done her very best to mould it exactly in her own image.

The Kindly Snow – A Love Story:

The snow fell soft against his cheek like a butterfly’s kisses,

Whispering winters chill.  It was getting deeper now, his legs

Heavier as he pushed forward, assisted by a keen but kindly

Wind at his back.  His mind went back to the Summer of 69,

Better by far than Brian Adam’s song.  They were lying on

The grass together in the Bot Gardens beside a sign which,

Now covered with his jacket, entreated them to keep off it.

A butterfly alighted upon her nose and her eyes opened very

Slowly, and crossed as she tried to see what the interloper

Was.  When it flew off he stroked her cheek, kissed her and

Told her he loved her.  She laughed gently, touching his lips

Most tenderly, calling him to silence.  No complications.

…………………………………………………………………...

When she went away he nearly went mad.  He ached for her,

Shaking, his heart pounding, bereft, grieving but knowing she

Was alive.  His longing took him to dark places, a foul pit he

Had not known existed.  Their phone calls lasted for hours

And made him miss her even more.  She was a voice he needed

To hold.  She had a mind which made his fly to places where

He hadn’t known there were places.  They had brought each

Other to new music, writers and artists.   Long into the night

They had talked of politics, people, philosophy, God and the

World as they would wish it to be, and then fallen into bed 

Exhausted, too tired to make love, but their bodies would touch

And magic would stir them yet again, and they would fly!

…………………………………………………………………... 

He remembered the first time he had seen her naked.  When

She pulled her jumper over her head and he saw her breasts

He forgot to breathe.  Wryly he wondered what it was that

So got guys going about breasts.  Was it the ultimate Oedipus 

Complex or some atavistic knowledge that they would be good

For feeding the growing tribe, the seed of his loins?  Inwardly

He laughed softly and felt still the echo of the awe.  He had 

Never tired of that sight, even as the years rolled swiftly by,

Never tired of the little snuffling noises she made when she

Was asleep.  He had told her somewhere in her family tree she

Had hedgehog!  But then he’d lie, his body against hers, and 

Stroke her gently until she sleepily reached for him and they

Made love again, and afterwards drifted off, alternately sweat 

Chilling, and too hot to hold each other, too much in love not to.

…………………………………………………………………

His mind wandered then to the airport where he had stood with

A sign with ‘Snuffles’ written on it, waiting for her to deplane,

Waiting to hold her again after her long absence, and the shock

Of seeing her!  Surely she could not be so beautiful, so poised

And yet so vulnerable, her eyes darting everywhere and then 

Landing on him and a smile lighting her face and clutching his 

Heart as she ran forward into his arms, crushing the silly sign,

And he held her, he remembered, held her and never wanted

To let go, ever, and he resolved then and there, he never would.

…………………………………………………………………...

Their wedding came then to mind, just the two of them and

Their neighbours as witnesses.  Had it been possible they 

Wouldn’t even have had those; they only wanted each other.

And he smiled at the memory of their conversations about 

Getting married and their eventual agreement, in a very adult

Manner, that it made sense, legally, if anything should happen

To one of them, and then admitting after the event that it had

All been bullshit, and they’d married because their love had

Told them to do so, and that might not be the thing for other

People, but for whatever reason, it was for them.  And then 

There had been the kids and his need to step back from being

Number one in her scheme of things but number two, then

Three and finally four, and he hadn’t minded, for watching

Her love of them, their so very personal creations and solid

Outcomes of their love, had often left him totally enthralled.

…………………………………………………………………...

And then darkness fell on him as he remembered the decline. 

It had all seemed peaceful and full of good intent at first, just 

Folk quite reasonably calling for recognition of their right to 

Choose their faith, but the savage backlash from those he had 

Always thought better of meant he had found himself defending 

Those who  were being oppressed.  As it had all continued he 

Found his own people turning against him, reckoning him to be 

A quisling.  After the second attack on the house he had asked 

Her to go and stay with one of their now adult children who 

Lived in far off Canada, or her Aunt’s friends in the Lebanon, 

Untroubled by the internecine strife that was now taking place

Around them, increasingly vicious and bloody.  His mind made 

Comparisons with the way it must have been in Germany when 

Hitler’s dark perversion seduced the people similarly.  His heart 

Had come near to breaking when increasingly he saw his folk 

Choose to ignore the gross injustice of their position. So it was 

That her refusal to leave to a place of safety, even as the threats 

Grew, had placed a deep sense of foreboding deep inside him. 

……………………………………………………………….......

They had, he recalled, been walking hand in hand round the lake

Where they had so often taken their dogs.  The trees reflected on

The water, shimmering slightly in a southern breeze.  They had

Stopped to watch a seagull showing off to his flock which lay 

Calmly upon the face of the water, and as he stooped down to 

Pick a dandelion to put in her hair the shot had rung out, a harsh 

Crack juxtaposed with bird song, and for a moment it was silent,

And outside of time, and then she was falling towards the water 

And the dogs were barking wildly.   He remembered the flurry

As the seagulls had reached for the air, wheeling and calling as 

He stepped into the lake and put his arms under her and lifted

Her out.  He knew straightway she was dead, a neat hole near

Her temple on one side and a large hole, blood and grey matter 

On the other, and he remembered he had howled, roared and 

Screamed his loss and anger.  Then he’d looked up, astonished.

…………………………………………………………………...

The man was grey haired, gone to fat, wearing fatigues and had

A rifle held loosely in his hand which he noticed absently had a 

Telescopic site on it.  He somehow didn’t connect the man with 

What had happened for a second and then saw the smirk on his

Porcine face and from somewhere far away heard a voice tell 

How he’d fumbled the shot when he’d suddenly knelt down but 

Seeing the bitch lying there dead was okay with him.  As he 

Then brought the gun forward he had gone berserk, grabbing 

The barrel, hearing another crack of sound and head-butting

The killer, kicking him, gouging at his eyes, sobbing with wild 

Rage, and eventually taking the gun from the now battered and 

Bloody bastard and using it as a club, swinging it to catch him 

Under the jaw which made an audible sound as the man fell 

Back, sprawling on the ground beside her, beside his love, by 

His dead true love, and as he half noticed the ululating of the 

Approaching siren he swung it down again and again and again.

…………………………………………………………………...

Life had been on automatic thereafter.  Friends and family at 

First secretly and then to his face expressed their concern at his 

‘Keeping it all in’.  He had listened politely and nodded both his 

Understanding and appreciation for their concern. Later he had

Stood and watched her casket slide through the little doors to be 

Consumed in the flame, and for a moment his love and loss

Were near to surfacing, but he thought of that large hole and the 

Blood and grey matter and shrugged.  She most surely wasn’t in 

That box.  After the whole charade was over he went round and 

Listened to well-meaning platitudes and thanked people for their 

Kind words and for coming and then wished them all farewell.

…………………………………………………………………...

He had let the dust settle and then visited each of his children in 

Turn, leaving the dogs with he who loved them most and had 

The land, and the cats with he who they loved most and obeyed 

Them!  He then made an appointment with a house clearance 

Company, got them to liaise with the estate agent and as that all 

Progressed he attended an appointment with his solicitor, an old

Friend of many years, told him his plans and got the paperwork 

All signed and cleared tidily out of the way.  Leaving there he 

Made the way to the airport and took a flight, first class, to the 

Lebanon where after a short limousine ride he booked in to his 

Favourite hotel in Beirut, the Radisson Blu Martinez, and was 

Taken to the suite which they had always used when they had 

Holidayed here, their favourite destination.  From their balcony 

On the eighth floor they had had an excellent view of the clear 

Mediterranean, and the city centre was but a short ride away.

Having settled in he organised a limo to take him to the Abe 

Naim restaurant.  He noticed the latest renovation work at the 

Piccadilly Theatre across the road had completed their refurb.  

They had enjoyed many an evening there.  He turned, leaving 

The heat, and sat in solitary silence, ordering a mezza and eating 

All their favourite foods, tasting none of them and thinking of 

Her, his darling, his true and only love, his reason for living. ……………………………………………………………….......

Remarkably he had slept well.  It could have been something to 

Do with the Remy he had sat sipping until the wee small hours.  

For the first time, he had wept.  Not great gulping sobs which 

Part of him felt he owed himself, but soft, cheek-stroking tears 

That were full of pieces of his shattered heart.  He remembered 

When they had been apart, his grieving and their phone calls.  It 

Made him smile as he recalled his later call with the phone 

Company, challenging his $3,000 bill.  In the end they accepted, 

Going on his previous bills, it must be an error and he hadn’t 

Had to pay.  When he told her, she threw her arms around his 

Neck, told him he was a genius and kissed him, a kiss which led 

On from one thing to another and they’d set off to their bedroom 

But ended up making love on the stairs.  God, he loved her so 

Much, and that fat, stupid bastard had snuffed out her glorious 

Bright, flaring flame in an instant!  His grip tightened on the 

Glass and it shattered in his hand.  He threw the remnant at the 

Wall, wrapped a towel round his hand to stop the blood, took a 

Swig from the bottle and then went to the bedroom and slept.

…………………………………………………………………..

He had enjoyed breakfast, and gone off to visit the Jeita Grotto.  

It was less than 20 klicks from the hotel and they had never 

Tired of visiting it.  He then returned, booked out and picked up 

The hire car he’d arranged.  He threw his bag in the back, then 

Whacked the a/c up and set off through the chaos that was the 

Traffic in Beirut.  Normally she had driven here; she drove like 

A demon, banging on the wheel, holding down the horn, making 

Most unladylike gestures and generally loving playing chicken 

With startled locals.  Uncaring, he did his best to emulate her, 

For Auld Lang Syne.  Eventually he got out of town and a little 

Over an hour later arrived in the vicinity of Faraya.  They had 

Visited her ageing Aunt here for many years and though they 

Didn’t ski, enjoyed the area most in December when there was 

Plenty of snow.  This year there was even more than usual.

…………………………………………………………………...

He parked the car up a little track and sat looking at the icing 

Sugar covered trees.  Unzipping his bag he took out a bottle of 

Remy and a crystal glass which she had given him many years 

Ago.  He had never told her that the crystal was too thick for a 

Good brandy glass.  He filled it deliberately, put the cork back 

In the bottle and drank a toast to her.  As he drank he saw her 

Face, her dancing eyes, the soft curve of her lips as she smiled.  

He listened to her laughter, her snuffling and the music of her 

Voice caressing once more his heart.  He didn’t mind the tears, 

Thinking wryly how he’d always been appalled at the idea of 

Cognac and water, and slowly, there was no need to hurry, he

Let all that was her consume his mind.  When he finished the 

Bottle he put the cork back, placed it tidily in his bag and with

The key in the ignition, he got out and walked off up the track.

…………………………………………………………………...

The snow got thicker, each step becoming more of an effort.

He no longer felt the cold and the deep, scratching pain, and 

Was starting to lose feeling in much of his extremities.  He had 

Always found it difficult not to judge harshly people who took 

Their own lives.  He didn’t think of his action as suicide but 

Accepting that people could, he had made everything as tidy as 

Possible and hopefully left the situation in sufficient doubt that 

It might equally be assumed he had just taken a walk whilst 

Drunk, got lost and … the rest was history!  On that thought he 

Stopped and sat down.  He wasn’t committing suicide, he was 

Doing that which was logical.  Life without her was not a life he 

Was prepared to accept, and in his belief system he had every 

Hope that this way he’d see them reunited.  He smiled a little 

Ruefully.  It was a bit of a gamble!  Still, he was tired, and it 

Seemed to him that the best thing to do was lie down and sleep.

…………………………………………………………………...

He felt something gently touch his lips and slowly he opened his 

Eyes.  It was her!  Her smile burst over him, a waterfall of love, 

Colour and light.  She held out her hand to help him up and his 

Heart reassembled itself and filled him with an overwhelming 

Joy.  He rose easily to his feet and somehow was in her arms 

Again, like at the airport so long ago, and once more he vowed 

He would not lose her again.  He stepped back and told her she 

Was even more inviting than a bottle of 1988 Bollinger.  And he 

Stood, then, staring at her, falling into the love in her eyes, and 

Tears rolled once more down his cheeks, but this time there was 

No restraint and the sobbing he owed himself happened, and he 

Was gulping for air, telling her what it had been like when he 

Saw her lying there, her beautiful, wonderful and endlessly 

Fascinating brain oozing out into the water, and the fat, sneering 

Clown who he’d killed and given serious thought to destroying 

His entire family, and he was in her arms again, and she was S

troking the back of his head gently, telling him everything was 

Alright, and as his gasping sobs slowed down and he put all that 

Pain where it belonged, behind him, he realised that it would be, 

Gloriously, wonderfully, eternally, and she had a whole new 

lain of existence to show him.  She took his head in her hands, 

Kissed his eyes tenderly, like a butterfly, took his hand and, her 

Eyes dancing, asked him softly when it was he’d last made love.

……………………………………………………………….

Fin