which came first

Afternoon tea at the Chateau de Healy.
"What was that picture you put on your blog last night?" wondered the Mammy.
"What did you think it was?" sez I.
"It looked like a hen laying an egg," sez she.
I allowed himself a sharp intake of breath.
"It's a dove and a forest contained in a tear drop," I explained with measured dignity. "The dove might be the dove of peace or the holy spirit or both. The forest might be the healing of our wounded world."
There was a moment's silence.
"Oh," said Lil.
"What did you think the hen and the egg had to do with the caption amor vincit omnia?" I enquired a trifle tersely.
"I thought you were just being pretentious," shot back she without hesitation.
And somewhere not too far away the soundtrack to The Good The Bad And The Ugly went: "Aaahiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaahiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
A prophet is never welcome in his own chateau.

MacHeelers

Morning at the chateau.
Ireland's greatest living poet stumbles blearily into the kitchen.
The lady known as Lil is posited comfortably at the table imbibing orange juice.
"You'd better get a new tooth brush," sez she by way of greeting as her favourite son fumbles for the kettle.
This conversational gambit is odd even by our usual surrealistic standards.
I turn with some surprise.
"Why do I need to get a new toothbrush?" I enquire suspiciously.
"Because I went to use your old one yesterday and it's worn out," answereth she.
The noble Heelers plonks down on a chair.
"What's wrong with you," enquires the Mammy.
I allow my handsome preraphaelite features to sink into my tapered poet's hands.
"I have supped full with Hodders," I murmur, "but she's not in the halfpenny place with you."

A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard and James Healy)

amor vincit omnia

evening clouds tinged gold by the setting sun

Bumping along the bottom.
Mrs W gone. Quinner gone.
Hark I hear Cilla Black singing again in her inimitably sweet sad soft tones...
"What's it all about Heelers?"
For once I don't know what to tell her.
Now this.
Aunty Mary dropped in for a visit today.
"My cat left a dead robin on the window sill on Wednesday," she told me conversationally.
So robin gone too.
About as gone as a robin can be.
He'd been coming all summer. I regarded him as a consolation from the creator of the universe. If I went into the garden and called "Robin," he would alight on the grass. If I opened the kitchen window and called for him, he would arrive on the window sill in a ball of furiously beating wings. Not half as graceful a flyer as the swallows. But all robin. He had even started to come into the house. The family were getting used to finding him in the oddest places. "Your robin got in again," the Dad would say bemusedly.
But no more.
We hadn't seen him for a few days.
Since Wednesday.
Sometimes the consolations are only for a little while.
Memo to all Heelers acquaintances, loved ones, lovers, pets, friends, enemies, pen pals, internet contacts, admirers, detractors, stalkers, corrupt cops, election stealing politicos, UN spooks, extra terrestrials, etc etc.
None of you are to die for the next six months.
I really can't take any more at the moment.

the field is won

In memory of The Mighty Quinn

Paul Quinn

1979-2007

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a power is passing from the earth

to breathless nature's dark abyss

but when the great and good depart

what is it more than this

that man who is from god sent forth

doth yet again to god return

such ebb and flow must ever be

then wherefore should we mourn

(wordsworth)

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Flights of angels bring you home Quinner.

James