strange visitors

come with me

to the darkest most beautiful night

that the world has ever seen

and ever might

we can sit on the straw

we'll get warm from it

and watch the stillness draw

a cloak of peace

through a time of war

lambs are calling in the fields

that this night is forever

and forever yields

to this night

we are there

hid in the warmth

from things that are old

and things that are rare

look look my friend

gold

frankincense

and myrrh

where paddy pup rests

 

winter

In the vet's office I spied big fluffy dog baskets on sale.

The one that would fit my behemoth cost sixty five lids.

I bought it as an act of faith that the Count De Snuffles would be staying with me a little while longer.

Back at the chateau I placed the basket on the ground at the end of the bed where my dog was accustomed to flumping during the night.

Paddy Pup sniffed it briefly, looked at me, then moved to the free side of the bed where he lay down contendedly.

We both knew the basket would be for another dog.

spies like us

the decembrists

Genia is preparing to leave Ireland.

Who knows if I'll ever see her again?

This evening she showed me a photograph.
The photo was of herself at a modelling shoot.

I said: "It's not you. You're more beautiful here and now just being yourself."

She eyed me dubiously.

"You don't like it?" she enquired.

"It's lovely," I persisted, "but you're lovelier now as the natural you. Oh I've been meaning to ask you. Are you really a spy for the KGB?"

"Oh," she exclaimed. "Not again. You and every other Irish person thinks that. My idiot flatmate is always saying that."

"You might think he's an idiot," sez me, "but actually he's got you fooled. He's one of ours."

"One of yours?" quoth she.

"He's working for us in Irish Intelligence," quoth me.

"No he isn't," cried Genia warmly. "You might be a spy but he definitely isn't."

"That's the genius of the Irish Secret Service, Genia," I told her. "Everyone thinks we're idiots. But we get the job done. We close down vast spy networks of enemy agents just by singling out pretty girls and asking them repeatedly: Are you a spy? Are you a spy? Are you a spy? It's a scatter gun approach but we have it down to a fine art. Most girls get tired of it and go home."
"Whether they're spies or not," murmured Genia wearily.
"That's not the point really," sez me.

"Have you caught many?" asked Genia.

"Well none yet," I admitted. "But we're a new Secret Service. We were only founded last week at a top level government meeting down the boozer."

"Well I can definitely tell you my flatmate isn't an Irish spy or any other type of spy," moued Genia.

"You really think so?" I chuckled. "Oh that guy is good. The boss at G-16 thinks he's our best... That's the name of our Intelligence Agency by the way. G-16. It stands for Guinness-16."

"Why the 16?" wondered Genia.

"It's the number of pints our agents drink before going on a mission," I explained.

"Oh," quoth she meditatively. "Light drinkers."

"Anyway," I continued, "the boss at G-16 was looking at photographs of you. And he said: Send me our best slob. We need to find out if this girls is working for the Russians. This mission is vital to national security. And let's face it we owe it to ourselves to live a little. That's why your flatmate was chosen. You see you Russians and the Americans and the Brits and the Israelis all think spies have to be slick sophisticated dashing intellectual rubgy player arian nazi jock types with degrees in astrophysics and kung fu. Your agents stand out a mile. Ours just shamble along in a state of unqualified agreeable inebriation and no one ever suspects we're spies."

Genia nodded.

"You maybe," she mused looking at me thoughtfully. "You could be a spy. It would explain a lot. My flatmate, never."

one for the road

He's making a list.

He's checking it twice.

He knows everyone,

Who's been naughty or nice...