When I set out vagabonding…was so young, I just could not believe there were ends. I lived between poems, no time frame or care, or worry that by perchance reaching for old age find nothing there. When wedged between poems, unsure of what to do, be it damp sand or warm bunk- I stretch out on my side and write to you.
Dear Beatrice- Remember as kids watching on the telly, “Travel Time With Host Horst Burgoyne”? Sunday afternoons my sister Alice let us watch so she could laugh. Horst had an accent only you could understand, he and wife Alma filmed, strolling hand in hand, Paris, Venice, or Milan.
Horst drank beer and walked, trousers rolled up, on the beach at Rio every year. a sausage maker sponsored him, I’d sit drooling as Horst sampled liverwurst, and aged Spanish Ham. BURGOYNE, BURGOYNE, BURGONE, Alice yelled when it was over, and her sing-along music show came on.
BURGOYNE, BURGOYNE, BURGONE, Alice rubbed my face in a pet stain, as Horst boarded ship, bus or train. BURGOYNE, BURGOYNE, BURGONE, Alice warned me never ever fly, lest beets be dinner on a crowded aeroplane, and I could not escape.
“I will go there someday, I told Alice, as Horst stood in awe, (though the film was black and white) at sunrise on a South Pacific Cape” BURGOYNE, Burgoyne, Burgone, I sighed when came the Sunday, Horst’s Travel Program was no longer on..
. Spoiled and wealthy, Tenbrooks Smythe The Third threw unwanted birthday gifts away. Bow-ties, warm socks, and a globe of the world, new still in it’s box. I saw him do this and pawed through the heap, gave you, Beatrice the socks and the lovely globe was mine to keep. I wrapped my precious globe in a manky old robe that belonged to the previous owner of our home, knowing Alice would not touch it, and when in private, could dream of the places I, like Horst Burgoyne one day would roam.
Sang Horst- “Take me wherever you go”, Here I am in Canada, wedged between poems, way out east in Canso. Green seawater roiling gently up the weed slippery rocks. I watch the little boats come home, at eve down on the docks. Where the lobsters are brought in. Up the hill someone is playing piano, her own composition. Rode a borrowed bike today, wind blew me out to the headland, blew even stronger coming back the way I came.
All in one day, fog, sun, cold wind, freezing rain. The whiskery, shaggy faces and curiosity, makes it look as though the wild ponies ranging here laugh along with me. Did you receive the ceramic lobster I sent for your long past birthday? I begged it from a grocer, part of a window display. A rather rude cop, malingering near the shop, thought I pinched the lobster as I carried it out the door. I introduced my self, let her know I disliked beets, and promised never ask for ceramic lobsters in Canso anymore.
Rather offhand, she suggested I seek a ship to drop me far away in Iceland. Fermented shark, thermal pools, midnight sun, bitter cold…I wonder, what became of Horst Burgoyne, he was old when we were young.
Dear Godfrey- Beatrice here, indeed yes, I remember that cheesy travel show, and I still have your globe, though disposed of that manky old robe years ago. I recall Horst’s wife, she dressed like “Heidi” and only spoke once, asking “Is that a baby one”?, pointing at an elephant calf.
You drank in every word, so serious, Alice and I would roll on the floor and laugh. BURGOYNE, BURGOYNE, BURGONE…”I have a special shelf , you know the one with the vase, for your lovely lobster to sit on. I oft think of you when the goat bells tinkle end of day, or when wedged between poems to, can not finish either one…still wistful at the memory of Horst Burgoyne…long ago an early inspiration…