At Ashtan, where blackbirds brew brandy in boots,
And the shadows wear waistcoats and argue with roots,
There capered a gentleman, crimson of nose,
With a heart full of honey and thorns in his clothes.

Tickety-tackety! Tallow and tin!
"Who let that opinion come wandering in?"
He would cherish a friend with a purseful of gold,
Then enquire why the gold had been given so bold.

In Hashan, the moon wore a mask made of mice;
The rats held a council on virtue and vice.
"Somewhere, someday, somehow," he cried to the night,
"I shall prove that my wrongness is perfectly right!"

But-but! went the bell. And-but! went the drum.
The crows spat out commas. The trumpets went numb.
He could turn a kind gesture, a kiss, or a cake
To a question of motive, procedure, and stake.

In Mhaldor, the iron went clangety-clang,
And the chains on the battlements learned how to sang.
He would fight for your honour, defend your good name,
Then dispute whether honour had properly came.

In Eleusis, the leaves tied themselves into bows;
The foxes wore spectacles, measuring toes.
He brought you a flower, then questioned the root:
"Who authorised blooming? And is it astute?"

In Targossas, the angels took minutes in ink,
While the seraphs grew weary of stopping to think.
In Cyrene, the clocktower struck thirteen at tea,
And the clocks filed a grievance against one, two, three.

For the man had a heart like a hearth in the snow,
And a temper that set all the teaspoons aglow.
He would sit by your sickbed till dawn's yellow eye,
Then correct how you coughed, and enquire precisely why.

Somewhere, someday, somehow! The phrase took to flight,
A blue-feathered beetle that gnawed at the night.
It crawled up the banners, it nested in stone,
Till the cities of Sapience each claimed it their own.

But one evening his dearest sat quiet and pale,
With the dusk like a moth on the edge of her veil.
He approached with his But, all polished and bright,
A small silver sabre prepared for the fight.

She held out her hand.

The sabre went slack.

The moon dropped its monocle. Night turned its back.

He sat.

He said nothing.

The silence grew wide
As the sea between cities, as grief kept inside.

Then softly: "My dear--"

And the word 'But..' arose,
With its boots and its buckles and buttons in rows.

He looked at her fingers. He looked at the floor.
He looked at the word standing guard at the door.

"Of course," he began.

Then he stopped.

And the stars,
Those ridiculous landlords of distant affairs,
Put their heads through the heavens, all powdered and white:

"He's learning," they whispered.

"Don't frighten him. Night."

And Sapience slept, with its cities of stone,
Its quarrels, its kindness, its thrones overthrown.

But somewhere, someday, somehow, I swear,
A small 'But...' is polishing boots on the stair.

And the man, with his heart full of love and alarm,
Has already prepared his rebuttal to charm.


Penned by my hand on the 12th of Sarapin, in the year 1017 AF.