Stumbling on Mount Royal at Sunrise

Quinn McIlhone

If I were to see you at dawn,

your favourite time of day,

we’d drink to Celtic glory

and set out on our way.

We’d abandon the flat for the park,

for a spot where we could imbibe

and watch the city awake

with the rebel disdain of our tribe.

You’d walk with a martial gait,

mad eyes giving strangers a start,

only your full lips hinting

at the voracity of your heart.

The Portuguese women would gape

at a vision no shrine would mark

– Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw

half-pissed at Mount Royal and Parc.

I’d make allusions to my past,

saying love needn’t end in disaster,

and trot out time-tested routines

until you were crazed with laughter.

You’d treat me to Halloween tales

of nights in Donegal,

how you battled with your demons

but bore no grudge at all.

I’d fall for your voice as you spoke,

sipping coffee with Appleton red,

sweet as the lies of Irishwomen

to babes on hip and men in bed.

I’d hear the echoes in your speech

and lose my heart without warning

as I lay on the grass beside you

and let the world march into morning.