Sledding the Citadel

Hoofmarks of the common transect its slope

streaks in the snowclothes of the once untreadded hill

sleepily hissing the steam of a slow defeat

a dormant regimental volcano

an angry General

a wart on the back of British North America



But for civic holidays

(celebrated with the clangor of Rule Britannia)

the guns are cold–the guns corked and cold and soldered

impotent to the ascending masses

who assess the terrain with feeling nocturnal toboggans

who aspire to the crest

only to scramble homeward



Guerilla leisure

–and this you won’t see in any Heritage Minute

© Ken Gildner