A little story (true) from a hundred years (almost), passed on to me by word of mouth by someone whose identity my memory has lost.

A man and wife lived in the house which I owned much later. He was called away to war and for four whole years he disappeared, she didn't hear a word.

I guess he was no writer.

He found himself released, no longer mired in foreign soil. War was won, the only thing to be done was go home once more.

He sent a telegram from the port, I'm coming home real soon. But he arrived before the post, and surprised his wife, who probably said something like,

Why my dear, did you not write?

When my love was newly won
She was the sun, the sun
The sun

Then before the year had run
All too soon the cooler moon
Is what she had become

And now she's but a distant star
A candle flicker from afar
But still her power I can see

For nights are dark
And thoughts are free

....and tainted in a plumage of a crinkled, mottled white
Where everything was almost...but actually, not quite.
Where the words appeared as doldrums in a tepid, tepid sea
And shades of green in dullness tried...but never mirrored me.

M

You learn a lot in a place like this
Start top right
Then ride your green bike
          red yellow green black
And the white lead goes in the middle
You learn what an angiogram feels like
And what it's like to have a broken heart