After the Movie
A cry comes again from the pavilion.
I was that nurse and that civilian,
I was the song in the carillon.
She sat on a tree trunk; no, a boulder.
I was the heart inside the soldier,
that broken arm – that hand, that shoulder.
Night which is moonless, melancholy.
I was the man who was extraordinary.
But who really knows the real Billy Connolly?
Creative Non-Fiction
The ideal reader for his memoir
was some savage version of his mother.
And there she was walking back from the water
coming at last to take his order.
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