Marigold of a crisp autumn morning, sunlight streaming in to light up her fine blond hair. Soft as a feather, translucent downy lashes framing bright blue eyes. Intelligent and knowing, newborn windows into an old soul. Named for the brilliant golden flower, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise colorless world.

Marigold of the butterfly kisses, her mother’s spitting image, apple of her father’s eye. A beautiful representation of their years together, blessing their fruitful union. Little lady in miniature, dancing through the corridors of his steely heart, the great man humbled before her tiny form.

Marigold of a thousand days. One thousand sunrises and bedtime stories. One thousand smiles and tears and nights of childish dreaming. Days as her father rose up through the ranks, Bulldog on his way to glory. The furies of battle and First World War coming to an end, a brief respite before an even greater evil rose up to take its place.

Marigold of Kensal Green, sleeping under weathered gray stone. Her mother’s anguished cries echoing through the years, her father’s resolve forged in terrible grief. A child of sunlight resting in the gentle darkness of eternity, beloved footnote shrouded within the Churchill name.


Ghosts of November

The ghosts of November scratch at my window panes
Distended, twisted branches of a tree, pleading for entry
Silence of a grave on a snow covered hill
Adorned with dried up petals of forgotten flowers

The days of carefree abandon have passed along with them
Youth and warmth and fanciful dreaming
Gone seemingly in a moment, the years rushing by
The ghosts of November dance and dance, wisps of smoke from a flickering candle

I could not save her in November, nor in the winter as the world shriveled away in the cold
I could do nothing but watch as the ghosts came to claim her
Seated in a chair beside her bed
As they danced and frolicked and carried her away

The ghosts of November scratch at the contours of my heart
Begging entry as the days grow short, but I dare not let them in
Lest I also shrivel away once more into cold despair
As autumn dies by winter’s icy grip, the ghosts of November come to collect their due, before carelessly dancing away into eternity