“Cast a cold Eye On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by!”
It was finished.
Ink down, he leans back in his chair.
There’s a scratching at the door,
and a low light sneeze
from a small mouth covered in hair with a pink tongue,
chilled by the cold country air.
William gets up and opens the door,
and that night a friendship is forged in front of flames,
between the aging poet and the grey pup.
They spend the night scratching each others’ bellies,
and right behind the ear,
and occasionally sneezing in the dust.
“What of it?” the poet asks, in a definitely thick Irish accent,
Which I refuse to attempt here and now.
“What of it? and Why not?
I have some time left,
with energy in me to burn.
If life will keep circling,
then this time round I won’t spend it on the page.
I’ll spend it this next cycle with my new loyal friend.
You’re better than any man young and old,
and I will call you Lucy or Montgomery,
but nothing in between.”
He buys the dog a little cape
and they both wear matching hats
and Lucy or Montgomery but nothing in between somehow smokes a little pipe.
And the quixotically impressive two traverse the country
Sniffing out crime!
An unstoppable duo!
[Insert your own short verse mystery adventure here!]
But the old man, aged 73,
a noble literary heart, had run his full cycle,
and without fuss was buried.
It was Lucy or Montgomery that dug up his bones
To send them to their final resting place
Rumour has it, one was kept as a keepsake.
Lucy or Montgomery, out of respect for the end,
Lived then a life of simplicity
and no body was ever found.
So if you pass a schnauzer,
not wearing a little cape or not smoking a pipe,
occasionally sneezing or sniffing the jonquils,
You too will know the cycle of life,
and question transcendence.
Spare a thought for the crusaders of justice,
Lucy or Montgomery and William Butler Yeats.
- Scott Sandwich