It is not Hamilton, a place in which my granddad enthused over

In his semi-waking dreams and in which, even as a small boy, I knew

He would rather have stayed, grown old in and perhaps

Even rather have passed

Away peacefully in the comfort of a town

That he once had played baseball and swam across its neighbouring lake.

Montreal he had only mentioned as a place that he had seen once,

From the deck of one ship and then from the deck of another

When the family left Canada to come to England via

Liverpool Docks

Across thousands of miles of blue, cold and dangerous waters

To arrive back in Birmingham’s cold and dangerous war torn alleyways and in which his future

Father-in-law would die as the B.S.A. factory was obliterated in Small Heath.

Montreal, a city in a province that feels like its own nation,

Its own fever seeping out as its combines its history

With its own potential, one not destroyed by a war but built upon an unspoken promise in which

It would eventually demand to be allowed to say au revoir.

I saw the city as a man, as a willing and frustrated child, with no conception

Of what I would

Find in the alleyways, the long roads full of bright lights and action that secretes in secret

The idea of being apart but nestled comfortably

Within a collection of people determined

To be taken seriously.

Wandering round this city, a jewel without a box in which to

Hide its brilliant shine, I am taken

In

By the hand, I am led easily through quarters in which to spend Dollars,

In the creative stance held by many as they tussle of being French

In England.

I see no-one on the lower streets by the river save

A collection of rag-tag men, brown paper bags in which they sniff the contents

Greedily and with no remorse in their actions.

A sniff, a quick taste and then plunging back into the bag but with the delicate

Handling of a man cradling his first born on the Christening font.

I meet a friend by the theatre, greeted warmly he tells me of the land of

Brutopia.

Sir Thomas More’s divine thought of where all beer is equal and I savoured the thought.

The music that will eventually flow over me escapes from within the theatre,

Washing gently at the skin as if preparing for delicate surgery. Must be clean

To enjoy, must be clean to relish, must be clean to weep in joy at when the time comes.

Captured on camera in the act of weeping unashamedly as I think of

Being Afraid of Sunlight, of leaving this place unexplored.

My T-shirt ruffled in the Canadian wind that drew strength as it made its way

Past mountains, open fields and deep and terrifying forests

In which I had once sheltered from myself. I strike a long match and watch as the blue

Spark tingles with excitement and becomes alive and soon becomes

Extinguished as the cigar is finally fully lit. A rush of thoughts gallop past me as if being ridden

By the Four Horseman of the Mountie Division.

I drew breathe and reflected of him grinning as he told me

Of his time in the Canadian dream.

I had arrived by plane, my grandfather left by ship. I came to praise,

He left with spirits dampened, destroyed and his father’s own hope taken from him.

I knew Hamilton like the back of my hand, I knew every crevice, I had seen every Gown

And struck every Gavel

Hard

But I barely knew this city, every detour and exploration, a chance to talk to someone new

To find out what made it so special to those who lived

Under the shadow of dominion

But who knew they were unlike any

Other. What made it special to those who visited its sanctum,

The Utopia within the Brutopia.

I yearned for more, the University, the Latin Quarter, a fraction

Of what I could see but was thrilled by any discovery

And yearned to have told my Granddad of all he had missed in 37

As he sailed back to England, the Canadian dream now over.

 

Ian D. Hall 2013.