Guy Lombardo

But it begins again when listening to Guy Lombardo And his Royal Canadians. Out of the depth or height Of a summer barbecue in Ontario, everywhere I look, Sunshine follows me as if ‘I don’t want to walk without you’ Or ‘South of the Border’ leads to a kind of July That turns up the orange glow of a late afternoon. It’s just that a familiar kind of warmth, warm irregular Stones of your Glenshelane patio, our two glasses with Dried crimson flakes of old sherry, this patio that Seemed like a small country for making poems, this Space between me and fragments of shrimp-pink Petals shearing away from Violet Carson, followed by Great clusters of Paddy McGredy, Super Star’s vermilion, The velvet purse of tight Papa Meilland, the indecisive Depth of yellow fringe of pink in Peace; it’s just that Something settled in Ontario long ago, a patio as Small as Ulster, a tiny place with planters or pioneers, Like the small Protestant note in Irish history that you Have claimed to hear since childhood. You have heard It, you said, over and over, and you are as content with This as any patriot in a foreign jail. For me, it was not A country or a province, but more an afterglow, as subtle As the subtle bouquet-garni or the rare essence of Rose petals; all so like pollen it would make you dizzy. Because I, like you, must always remain true to my heart I admit I saw the green and the yolk of Ireland part, Never to be made whole again, never in all Balmoral Seasons. And not to declare this is a kind of treason: I am as odd as be-damned. I am of no historical use

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