I've been so busy of late, at work and in the evenings.  This morning there was snow on the ground and the Missus banned me from biking to work.  Which was fine, bcause it gave me a chance to read some Neil Gaiman short stories I had bought.

Some of his short stories have a lyrical feel to them, not poetry, but under the sentence construction there is a beat.  I had to stand on the train both ways.

Why don't we write any sagas any more.  One day I'd like to see a trainful of commuters chant this epic in unison as they march down platform 6 at Cannon Street.

Robert hunted figures daily, in the shadows of the books.
Treading softly through the columns, pen and keypad at his hand.
Eagle eye that missed no entry, double keeping held no fear.
But this morn his heart was heavy. On this day it held no cheer.

Jacqueline, his faithful woman, saw the signs of evil fell.
Saw the weight upon his shoulder, saw the pain deep in his eye.
In her heart she wished him homeful, prayed that in his house he’d stay,
Begged her forebears in the heavens that his fate at home would lay.

But as well she saw his spirit, saw the proud and brave, true heart.
Knew that all her pleading could not, would not make him dodge his doom.
So she kindled too her life flame, stood full height and stiffly proud.
Warriors were in her bloodline, and she would not let them down.

So around his neck she gathered his black scarf from Aunty Bett,
Woven weeks with wool and loving and for Christmas gaily wrapped.
His warm coat with night-black collar on his shoulders gently lay.
And his hat with crest emblazoned proudly shouted ‘CFC’.

Then within her arms she gathered for one last and tender hug.
Laid her head upon his shoulder, kissed him gently on the cheek.
Whispered softly in his shell-like "Hurry home and be with me.
Worry not, company audits only come but once a year"

Then he turned and crossed the garden, through the gate and past the hedge.
Never turning, backward glancing. Only front and centre looked.
Whilst she stood and watched his leaving, never from his back she glanced.
Watching till the corner turning, still she watched for minutes more.

At the station marched the hero, past the surly turnstile guard,
Through the throng of merely mortal, strong of spirit, pure of heart.
On the platform still and patient, never crossing yellow line,
Stood he strong and ever silent, waiting for the train to come.

When the portal hissing opened people surged to climb inside.
But he stood aside as gently he allowed a lass to board.
So she thanked him shyly for it, and from time to time she’d smile
But his heart was filled with one face.  On his cheek her kiss warm still.

Deep in city stood the castle, fortress of the evil firm.
Boldly and with not a tremor Robert trod to dungeon drear.
For an age that seemed a lifetime, for a lifetime stretched and long
Hacking, tapping, writing figures, Robert slew the finance beast.

Jacqui, cooking, heard the key turn, heard the latch drop clicking down.
Took the boiling kettle swiftly, poured it on the Typhoo bag.
Checked her face for signs of worry then to him her glances fled.
Saw the pride, the satisfaction. Knew her hero safe returned.