On an unusually warm day in late October, I found myself lying face-up, on a comfortable stretch of grass, between two old, flaking tombstones, in Halifax's oldest graveyard, St. Paul's Cemetery.
Established in 1749, the year of the city's founding, the cemetery is a national historic site, situated on an acre or so of green space in the city's downtown where, coincidentally, there also exists the largest concentration of pubs per population in all of North America - which, also coincidentally, leads me back to where I began: lying face-up, on a comfortable stretch of grass, between two old, flaking tombstones, in the city's oldest graveyard.
I chose to lie there because it seemed to me - at the time, anyway - to be a fitting place to contemplate my Muse. And of all the things that one might muse about while lying face-up in a graveyard, between two old, flaking tombstones, I chose to muse about this: what is it that lies beneath the lion's balls?
A strange thought? Well, let me explain.
http://www.commondreams.org/views05/1214-21.htm
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