Across the sand sprawls
the narrow river from its
winding course to the sea.
Salt laden sea winds buffet
a cluster of cottages in the
shelter of ragged ageing
macrocarpa trees.
We enjoyed several summers
in the end one. Boards cracked
and warped by the sun and wind
shed flakes of paint in every
wind blast, rust crumbs flew
from the corrugated Iron roof.
Inside chipped painted hardboard
lined the walls, chips peeled off
the linoleum’s hessian backing.
Above the kitchen bench shelves
held mismatched cups, glasses, plates.
Below the drawers held equally
worn cutlery and utensils.
Sagging beds and bunks with
thin battered pillows lay under
thin worn blankets and a
film of windblown sand.
At low tide we dug on the
beach for cockles* , at high tide
we caught small fish from the dinghy.
We climbed trees, followed tracks
found caves under rocky overhangs.
At nights we slept soundly
to the sound of wind, waves,
and the rattling of dusty sand.
*cockles: known in some countries as clams.
Previously posted March 2017.
Weather
The weather does not read
or follow the local forecast.
In heavy rain my umbrella
keeps my upper half dry
while my shoes and trouser
legs become wringing wet.
Today’s forecast was for cloudy
skies when I got up early to
catch one of our little city’s
few buses in time for my
errands in town. As I left
to catch the bus the skies
blackened, letting loose a
mighty torrential deluge.
Still needing to get to town
with no sign of rain or
darkness abating, along with
all other stranded souls I
called a taxi which finally
arrived and charged more
than the free bus ride
granted by my pensioner card.
And still it rained.
the weather has offered
no refund. I am the one
left carefully adjusting
my pensioner budget.
Previously posted March 2017.
Summer
Our first cicada this summer
sang today, several weeks
after they started singing on
earlier years, so late in Summer
after many cool cloudy rainy
weeks that we are now close
to what have always been
the Autumn months.
Will the cicadas have much
less time to lay eggs ?
Or will summer stretch
across the Autumn months ?
Our first monarch butterfly
laid eggs on my swan plants
today, some weeks after they
used to start laying eggs.
Will they have enough hot
weather to lay eggs this
summer ? Or will only
a few butterflies hatch ?
Summer is so confused
this year the insects
are in crisis mode ?
Previously posted March 2017.
Cicadas are about the size of crickets or slightly larger.
Their song is very different and much louder.
I have seen no praying mantises this summer.
In An Unknown Land
He wakes in a room he has
seen before, can’t think when,
in his pyjamas, in the bed.
Two women in white uniforms
come in, very cheerful, they know
him, help hi m to shower and dress.
He’s remembering he’s been here
some days now, the men in the
corridor greet him by name.
In a dining room with many
small tables more white uniforms
serve the men breakfast.
After breakfast he potters around
has midmorning cups of tea but
then needs a pre lunch snifter.
Alas all alcohol is locked away
in the nurses’ office medicine
cabinet, very securely locked.
Late afternoon they dole it out
sparingly, must be careful
with old man medication.
He remembers past good times
when he drank long and hard
with equally hard drinking mates.
What would they say if they saw
him now ? But they can’t, they
are gone, he’s outlived them all.
Previously posted March 2017.
Progress. I have located my blog writings.
Still accessing the internet at the library.
Still In Cyber Limbo
Telecom do not want to know.
My blogger’s writing is buried deep within a heap of cartons.
I have come to the computer Room at the public library to type this.
I still have to locate many items I want within y heap of cartons.
But I do think of you all.
Back soon I hope.
On The Move
I am on the move, taking a few days to do so.
I do not know when I will have internet access again, though I would certainly hope to have it up and running before Saturday, at the latest. But you can never tell in this situation.
Until then I will be looking forward to connecting with you all again.
Changing Scenes
He walked down the busy main
road, searching for someone,
not sure who, then back to the
place where he lived now.
She came in, said Mrs Brown saw
him going down the road. Why ?
She had said she wouldn’t be long.
He wanted to drive himself to the
club but she drove him there, said
he kept forgetting where he was.
He was a good driver, could drive fast,
needed a big car to go really fast
so the blokes at the club would
remember he was a real driver.
They packed everything in a truck
which drove away. Next day they
drove all day – well she drove –
up to a little house and parked the
car. She walked him over the road,
down the drive into a big hallway.
Two women met them, walked with them
along corridors and into a bedroom.
This is your room now they told him.
He says they should drive all day
back to the place they came from.
Then everything would be alright.
Previously posted March 2017.
A Hard Drinker
Firmly grasping his packs of ale
and bottle of rum the old man
leaving the liquor store glares at
the policeman checking car warrants
and registrations in the car park.
“You’re waiting to see if I fall over
drunk !” roars the old war veteran.
“Are you drunk ?” asks the policemen.
“You cops just want to stop real men
having a drink !” growls the veteran.
He had drunk hard in his days at war
on the ocean, with his mates at the pub,
and on his back verandah. At hotel
bottle stores he regularly filled up
his car boot with amber liquid supplies.
Just now he remembers courts suspend
licences of drinking drivers, no more
transport to pub or veterans’ club.
Warnings go on records
of obstreperous drivers.
At 88 he would not regain
his licence if he lost it.
He swallows his temper, replies
“No I’m not !” then removes
himself and his liquid supplies.
Previously posted March 2017.
A Lost Moment
“Give us a loan of your hat !”
the WW II veteran asked his daughter
standing before him in graduate’s mortar
board and gown. The usher had drawn
her across the town hall foyer to her
parents after the graduation ceremony.
She had not expected to see her parents
here, she had not known it mattered.
Her nervous laugh in reply said nothing.
Her father mopped tears from his eyes
seeing in her only the second in his family
to gain a degree. but her survival instinct
drove her to speak cliches then leave.
Too many stomach churning nights at the
dinner table, jealous rages poured over her,
tirades against lazy students protesting
the Vietnam war – she was not one of them.
More rages and fury after she sat her
last exams, went to live with other
young folk, not staying under his roof.
After many school meetings for parents
her mother had told her a degree would
get her a good job – which it did. But
other parts of her life were lost, diminished.
A moment when peace could have
been started – not seen, just lost.
Previously posted February 2017.
Under Father’s Roof
Under her father’s roof the woman
grew up early in the century, going
only to church, to school, to his
mother’s house, then stayed home with
her own mother for fourteen years until
his final illness forced her out to work.
The man too grew up early in the which
century with his mother staying
home. His sisters went to church,
to school, later to work, only leaving
their father’s roof after marriage.
The couple bore children after
world wide conflagration destroyed
the social order of their youth which
the parents constantly angrily mourned.
Outside their home, at school, university
and employment the children found
a new world, no more tirades of fear,
moved away from the razor wire
confines of their father’s roof.
In stunned disbelief the parents
saw their grown children leave
as soon as they earned a living.
Why would they do that ?
Previously posted February 2017.
lifecameos 