And ne’er be brought to mind

Singing
Singed by the night
Sparkling gasps
Smothered sighs
Seventeen
Solemn years
A century
Unceasing tears
Tears from the calendar
Another sheet
Stained with blood
Replete
Should auld
Acquaintance
Be forgot
Would all those
Tears be shed
For naught
Arms held out
With no embrace
Where arms
In the night
Inflamed
Seized our love
Snuffed the truth
With blaring song
Taking time
Leaving no trace
But powder burns
And so in January
The globe still turns.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa (Maisonneuve Press, 2003). . Read other articles by T.P..