No heat rose from the chimney pot tonight.
Apollonius hissed his contempt as we’d flown over roof tops and tree tops blazing with false light.
There’s no darkness anymore
for a fire’s glow to cast shadows in the corners, on the ceilings, on the floor.
Mystical creatures are conjured on the glowing screens held in hands in homes.
Children no longer seek comfort from the Pooka’s howls or the Banshee’s moans.
No one looks up, or out, anymore.
Hovering at the window, I wonder.
When Dullahan comes to carry this last believer home,
will the Death Coach carry me?
Not even the heather fibres of my broom can sweep away this change.
Getting cold (or is it old?)
My familiar urges flight.
I am alone this night.
Repulsed and, with a desert dry mouth, I made my way along the rubble.
Death was mummified in those misshapen, gnarled pieces of mortar, brick, and cobble.
But the gates weren’t locked for me.
No one saw me leave.
No one said I couldn’t.
I wasn’t sold the lie:
Arbeit Mach Frei.
I was sold appeasement.
Apollo was relentless that day.
Evidenced by the sun-creamed portraits my hands left around the surface of three spent water bottles.
I had taken shelter beneath the shade of some tree I should have known from its leaves.
I was distracted by the drought (or maybe I was numb).
That first lick was luscious.
My taste buds slalomed the semi frozen foam of Mount Olympus.
Milk and honey Mytikas cooled my sorrow.
She quenched my pain.
So easily two or three coins had eased my torment.