As they say it in France

Tuned in to the Great 208.

I can hear you even now,

singing along to C'est si bon,

until the signal was lost,

and the lyrics stopped

somewhere near the Left Bank.

 

Paris, La Ville Lumière,

eclipsed by a long-distance call

and its branding-iron news,

with only a red 3:10 beside the bed,

to light the trembling hand

that held a spent receiver.

 

You and Dean Martin,

a duo never in the charts,

but cherished by an audience of one,

A song unsung until today.

San fairy ann,

as your mother used to say.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

20 January 2026

The Going of Heroes

I am Feannóg

of ancient days,

the little flayer of flesh.

I groom a feathered coat of grey,

and wear an ink-dark hood.

My badge is the red-steeped beak.

My eyes are funeral black.

They have seen the finest fall.

Their once bright shields

dulled in bloodied mud.

I was beloved of Baḋḃ,

and honoured guest at the battle-feast,

where I drew the garden's plenty into my bones.

I remember the wailing laments

at the passing of the war-cry.

I saw valour lost to vice.

I see the celebration of nothing.

Beneath the shadow of my wings,

new hosts set the table,

but I hunger.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

17 January 2026

The New God

Two minutes of silence!

You must be joking.

Sorry.

I've got to take this.

And with the going down of the sun,

the hand-held glow

became the light of the world,

bringing comfort in the darkness.

And the still small voice

asked, "What are you doing here?"

But the question was lost

amid the noise.

John Walter Taylor

© All rights reserved

10 January 2026