The Bye Byes
Andrew Peters Somebody comes with the pills each day. He takes them with a thumb-measure of water (weak bladder, turning traitor after all these years—no need to provoke it). The pills do not go down easily. They are big, blue, about the size of a bullet. His observers make coo-coo noises of encouragement. There you go; in they pop, ah-one and ah-two; they don’t taste that bad, do they? No response required. Coo-coo, yourself. Better to creep deeper into the bed, wait for them to leave. Which they always do, thanks be to whoever. Outside, the light-footed snow. These days he lives in a castle on a bluff. Snow caps cover the eyes of the stone lions guarding the gate. The sloping roofs of the western front crisply loaved with white. Pages run the castle steps with salt. On the hills shepherds wedged in rocky nooks squint at distant village lights. He (Baron? Duke? King?) lies abed on an upper floor. Propped on three pillows, he hears the arrival of the coaches. Stately landaus with raised hoods, rocking char-a-bancs and wagonettes for the singers and shouters, the red-faced burghers. In the moonlight the quicksilver braid of the coachmen’s livery, their frogged chests flashing, makes him think, unfortunately, of so many bright needles. Zip along to the banquet, will we? Down six broad flights, along the torch-pricked corridors, burst into the Hall. Save time by donning ceremonials on the way, kicking off slippers, and so on.