ForeclosureIt’s cold, but not cold enough to feel like February. I’d forgotten how quiet it gets here. I’d forgotten how tucked away this house really was - plopped and precarious on a hill in the middle of suburbia, surrounded by rows and rows of town homes and nearly identical houses. The house across the street is actually a mirror image (I remember going inside when I was a child, to play with a long-lost-and-forgotten friend), except it’s painted pale peach instead of peeling periwinkle.
Not periwinkle, really. Cerulean? No. Blue. Just blue.
“I don’t really like this feeling I’m getting from this place.” she says.
“It’s haunted,” I reply. I cross the sloping lawn, which was always impossible to water.
You could stick the sprinkler on it for hours and have nothing to show for it. The top of the hill would be yellow and the bottom would be muddy and the Homeowner’s Association would still badger for green.
I know Dad just
an ode to king arthurArthur.
You lived once
(or did you? Historians are unsure but -
let us assume you did.)
I am fascinated by you.
Not the legends, but you, the Arthur that was.
The Arthur that wrote his name on England's soil,
its roots, its heart, and disappeared into
shadow, pulling cloths of darkness around you
leaving a burning after-image of your light
that flashes still on our eyelids.
You won a battle on Mount Badon
and for forty years after a torn apart Britain knew peace
and the world speaks of you still.
Who were you, Arthur? We know so little,
it was so long ago.
But you, Arthur, you held back the Saxons
the tide of invasion;
you held power in a little rainy island that contained the crumbling
aftertaste of Rome and the wild and ancient passion of the Celts
and the ever encroaching newcomers
from across the seas, with their weapons,
their boats -
and for whatever reason
you were remembered.
Out of all the chieftains, of all the thousands of warri