Mounties

Time to don your toque and get cozy in your bunnyhug Purple People because today we are beginning our North American tour and our first destination is Canada, Ey! 

We’ll warm up with a steaming bowl of Poutine followed by a double-double and a few Timbits as we get on the (etymological) road stopping along the way at Newfoundland and the ‘Capcity’, Ottawa. 

Talks of Newfoundland lead Gyles to share stories of his ‘most magical, musical’ evening at the theatre seeing a show about the island but that’s not before we have a triple Canadian name drop and discover that Gyles himself has Canadian blood! Susie’s dendrophile nature is perfectly placed to explore the wilderness of Canada but it’s the ice hockey that has her sharing a long lost dream of performing a deke on the ice. 

We’ll take a small trip with the mounties before settling down for a Jiggs Dinner for a couple of Twoonies and a bit of cloffin by the fire. 

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Enjoy Susie’s Trio for the week: 

Cloffin: to warm yourself by the fire and to warm the back of your legs specially, that is Brabbag 

Exlex - An outlaw 

Fysifunkus: One with no curiosity at all 

Gyles' poem this week was 'Variations on the Word Love' by Margaret Atwood  

This is a word we use to plug 

holes with. It’s the right size for those warm 

blanks in speech, for those red heart- 

shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing 

like real hearts. Add lace 

and you can sell 

it. We insert it also in the one empty 

space on the printed form 

that comes with no instructions. There are whole 

magazines with not much in them 

but the word love, you can 

rub it all over your body and you 

can cook with it too. How do we know 

it isn’t what goes on at the cool 

debaucheries of slugs under damp 

pieces of cardboard? As for the weed- 

seedlings nosing their tough snouts up 

among the lettuces, they shout it. 

Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising 

their glittering knives in salute.  

Then there’s the two 

of us. This word 

is far too short for us, it has only 

four letters, too sparse 

to fill those deep bare 

vacuums between the stars 

that press on us with their deafness. 

It’s not love we don’t wish 

to fall into, but that fear. 

this word is not enough but it will 

have to do. It’s a single 

vowel in this metallic 

silence, a mouth that says 

O again and again in wonder 

and pain, a breath, a finger 

grip on a cliffside. You can 

hold on or let go. 

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