Night’s new roster has been agreed and
implemented, though I note
she has yet to respond to the
round-robin email.
Her duties have not changed, so we
anticipate no need for any
upsurge in imposts, overall hours
remaining roughly the same.
P.R. and H.R. should be aware that
scare-stories are circulating of Night being
under-staffed and over-stretched:
firm denial is the line to take.
Point out that, although it is true her
watch correlates with
low patient outcomes,
Night is not a nurse, and that the
demands from the young, ABC1’s and
even poets for Night’s services has
been in steep decline,
year-on-year, for some time.
And can whoever sees her next please
remind her that we in this service see
Night as merely an extension of Day
but with less light.
I feel like a spy in my own country,
snapping secret photos full of
operational intelligence:
how wide is that river? how deep?
is that mud or will boots grip?
is the bridge defensible or
easily taken in a coup de main?
if tidal, when is high, when low? are there
fortifications? landward? seaward?
are they expecting us?
Wait a minute—us?
For every “us” there is a “them”.in which
category I felt ensconced,
so when exactly did I step onto the
slippery slope between
“them” and “us”?
The boy strode down that
stolid hill in that
ghost town towards the
white ship, expecting to sail
fully-armed, knowing the
sugar-sandwiches in his satchel, the
book or two wouldn’t
add much to its arsenal, but
trusting to his wit and spirit to
pay for his passage.
The blackbird war begins before dawn with
chorales we find beautiful, but to them are
battle-cries, marking territory,
asserting rights, fighting in-comers and
feisty females, claws hammering onto my
fence until one flees, one
raises her tail so the
fighting might stop.
Earth, water, sky sublime each day
in the Sun’s cruel crucible, then
slither back to sodden nature as
Sun sets.
We’re trapped between know-alls and
Know-Nothings, when
however much we try we cannot
know everything and
however much we
might wish it we can
never know nothing.
A zigzag of tidewrack,
fragile fossil of the sea’s last
demented assault.
I am the dull one, the
boring friend, overlooked
bearer of bad news, repository of
sickening confidences,
soaker-up of blood, testator,
greeter of invaders,
teller of tales at their tables,
my place getting farther and
farther away until I can
barely see the crown I once
nearly touched, a relic
embalmed in aspic,
forever denied felicity.
Fridayam's Blog 