Twinkle Shooters
Child, it wasn’t our fault we
were born the wild ones, with
twinkles shooting from us like
quills from porcupines (okay,
quill shooting’s a myth,) but I
swear one day we’ll fly to Cork
and find out who instigated
all this Irish jigging on frozen
harbors and lace bra flinging
into pines and naked maples.
Bet some little old guy leaning
on his cane with extra love in
his blue eye was responsible,
his missus of apple pies and
chicken stew no slouch herself.
So Child, some day when I am
long gone to the angels, when
you’re the light in any gloom,
the niblet of fun among sour
patch grapes, the one bursting
into song or bagpipe tunes for
no visible reason – shoot on,
sweet little twinkler, shoot on
and know that I’m twinkling too.
Jannie Funster January 2009
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