Happy Canada Day. In both official languages, and half an hour later in Newfoundland. Also, today is the feast day of Saint Oliver Plunkett (I was married in a church named after him, in Blackrock). Also, welcome to the deep summertime - enjoy it while it lasts these next eight weeks or so. And, finally, take stock: this is the second half of the year - with autumn and December ahead now - and the first day of the rest of your life. Well, okay, that last part was a bit much, but it is tempting to take it one day at a time, especially in the slowing laziness of this hottest and most humid of months. As for Canada - it's doing well - it had a brash Olympics, has an economic model the Tories have stolen, and has a few good poets, some darn fine film directors, actors and comedians, and world-class prose writers. Go on, Hug Shatner today, have a beaver's tail. Even, for a moment, imagine moving to Ottawa, world's safest, calmest capital - imagine skating on its canal.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

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