Kath, with her short, severe and dark hair,
sits on the guardrail above the choppy
Nova Scotian ocean, looking at something unseen.
She is thin, and wiry, with camouflage ball cap
and rain jacket, worn jeans, even more worn boots,
and she is beautiful, but her face could cut your skin.
She has been to war, and can’t escape another one.
I follow her into it, acolyte and hanger on, cannon fodder.
I follow her, and love her, adore her, though I am a fool.
She is hard, though her nature is soft; this the world did.
Once that ocean was blue and bright, now grey and alkaline.
The sky is threatening a storm, and that will soothe these tears.
She turns to me, and I’m not her kind, not her wanted knight,
but she gives me a hug, and we walk up the road, to barren life
and a war we fight though we know our bright moment is lost forever.
I sing that song she loves, about Michael defeating Satan in the
War in Heaven, and it’s gold dust on the deep November snows coming,
I feel close to her in this quiet, but she will always be the moon above
moving my tides and always the face I see when I look to the heavens
and to God, but always a dream, a vision that inspires beauty, wonder,
but never within reach, never any closer that it is on the Summer Solstice.
Later, In our sleeping bags, I stare into the crackling and hideous flames, as the sparksit spits into the air spin and swirl to join the stars already waiting for them in heaven.
She is asleep, and I will be soon, dreaming of us together in heaven, without skin or fear.