Before The Angel’s Share became a Maggie B. casefile, it began—as many things do—with a poem.
I wrote this one nearly 40 years ago and never shared it anywhere, not even on my original website. But it’s always stayed with me—more feeling than narrative, more atmosphere than event.
Looking back now, I can see how this scene—a riverside afternoon suspended between memory and dream—planted the seed for what would one day become Maggie’s quiet haunting.
So here it is at last. For completeness. For context. For the way small things linger.
Cognac
The sound of gurgling water
And that late summer sun
Lazily setting on the horizon
An unfinished picnic
Plates hurriedly piled together
The sound of children
Off in the distance
Their happy voices
Carrying on the breeze
Peals of laughter
and occasional whoops of joy
And as for that glorious smell in the air
The "share of the angels", they call it
Intoxicating in its perfume
A piece of heaven, right here on Earth
Pinch me, am I dreaming?
Is this just a memory?
Or a premonition of things to come
By the river, bare feet dangling in the water
Sit a couple who look familiar
Oblivious to their surroundings
They only have eyes for each other
I smile at sharing their secret
Walking on, I leave them to their happiness