A square of red brick bordering Bloor, like Blake’s sick but comely rose,
For nearly a century hid the railway tracks slicing through Etobicoke.
And, there, the depression-era legion stood harking back
To 1932, when we tried to bid farewell to arms; There,
Until a yellow arm levelled every block.
Releasing, after seven days of ruin,
Air, fresh and moist,
Unseasonably so for late December,
And light, incredibly white light,
From the NE onto Bloor street.
Upon the overnight snow, it plays —
Tossing in scattered sunrays,
And over the colonel’s tales;
Though not his cross ‘n things —
Those, in Grandpa’s trunk, are safe,
Unlike the curved plaster ceiling
And oak staircase.
There, often stood the head of the ladies auxiliary.
But the ladies will serve fish ‘n chips somewhere new,
And after the finger lick’n,
Right good brew;
Dancing will return Friday, and euchre
Every second Sunday afternoon.
It will be fine, I think,
Stalling to stare at multicoloured debris —
Scraps of a legion laid to bloody waste.
– Ahem! –
No, no . . .
We’re freeing space for the unknown!