Easter is .......
Too much chocolate!
Saturday, 4 April 2015
Autumn's Calf Sales
Autumn's calf sales.
These are marked by sleepless nights.
First there is the herding and drafting.
Cows and calves separated by barb and hinge-joint.
And until the bawling offspring are trucked off to sale-yards,
Night and day their anguish rings into the sky.
I hear their bellows in the quiet of the evening.
I hear it again around midnight,
When I wake from un-remembered dreams.
It is the first sound I notice despite the birdsong,
Heralding the new day.
As the sun is peaking over the horizon,
I go outside and into the paddocks,
I see the grieving cattle.
The light casts them in long shadows and a wispy blanket of mist.
The bereft mothers with udders that strain and ache with excess milk,
That will never again be suckled by this year's calves.
These are marked by sleepless nights.
First there is the herding and drafting.
Cows and calves separated by barb and hinge-joint.
And until the bawling offspring are trucked off to sale-yards,
Night and day their anguish rings into the sky.
I hear their bellows in the quiet of the evening.
I hear it again around midnight,
When I wake from un-remembered dreams.
It is the first sound I notice despite the birdsong,
Heralding the new day.
As the sun is peaking over the horizon,
I go outside and into the paddocks,
I see the grieving cattle.
The light casts them in long shadows and a wispy blanket of mist.
The bereft mothers with udders that strain and ache with excess milk,
That will never again be suckled by this year's calves.
Friday, 3 April 2015
Good Friday at Delegate
Good Friday.
Are we eating fish?
Going to church?
Reflecting on Christ's sacrifice?
No we are down at the river,
With the rest of the townsfolk of Delegate.
Baptising?
No we are gambling on the outcome of a race.
One hundred and nine starters.
There is pizza,
Baked in the town's cob-oven.
And an Easter egg hunt,
And boat races for the kids.
The playground is a riot of squeals.
The men beer in hand discuss,
The weather and stock prices.
The women, with one eye on their children discuss,
The nocturnal habits of newborns.
And at two o'clock it's on.
The crowd moves slowly along the bank,
The tension builds as the field spreads out.
Their are no scratchings.
Competitors that become snagged are pushed back into the flowing stream.
Till at last they cross the finish.
Great nets scoop up the multi- coloured plastic throng,
So that they may be available to race again next year.
And so ends the Delegate Duck Races for another year.
Are we eating fish?
Going to church?
Reflecting on Christ's sacrifice?
No we are down at the river,
With the rest of the townsfolk of Delegate.
Baptising?
No we are gambling on the outcome of a race.
One hundred and nine starters.
There is pizza,
Baked in the town's cob-oven.
And an Easter egg hunt,
And boat races for the kids.
The playground is a riot of squeals.
The men beer in hand discuss,
The weather and stock prices.
The women, with one eye on their children discuss,
The nocturnal habits of newborns.
And at two o'clock it's on.
The crowd moves slowly along the bank,
The tension builds as the field spreads out.
Their are no scratchings.
Competitors that become snagged are pushed back into the flowing stream.
Till at last they cross the finish.
Great nets scoop up the multi- coloured plastic throng,
So that they may be available to race again next year.
And so ends the Delegate Duck Races for another year.
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Spooning: A romantic date for the practically minded
Me and my mate are 'in' for a date.
Yes, we are at home,
Alone.
Kids at school,
So it's out with the tools:
Hatchet, saw, knives and sharpening stone.
He's been on a course,
So of course,
He's going to teach me too.
So for a romantic day,
Well what can I say?
What else would you have us do?
We saw and we hack and we whittle,
Until our time is up, far too soon,
And life must get back on track,
But we haven't yet,
Finished carving our spoons!.
Yes, we are at home,
Alone.
Kids at school,
So it's out with the tools:
Hatchet, saw, knives and sharpening stone.
He's been on a course,
So of course,
He's going to teach me too.
So for a romantic day,
Well what can I say?
What else would you have us do?
We saw and we hack and we whittle,
Until our time is up, far too soon,
And life must get back on track,
But we haven't yet,
Finished carving our spoons!.
Wednesday, 1 April 2015
Easter
It is Easter in the Southern Hemishere.
Children go to school in their,
Chick and bunny Easter bonnets.
They colour in,
And search for chocolate eggs.
The weather is cooling.
Daylight saving, in its death throws seems ridiculous.
We antipodeans celebrate the coming of Spring.
Yet my chickens have almost ceased laying.
I am gathering firewood for winter.
The last of the harvest,
The quinces, are being processed.
It is as bizarre as snow covered Christmas cards.
Children go to school in their,
Chick and bunny Easter bonnets.
They colour in,
And search for chocolate eggs.
The weather is cooling.
Daylight saving, in its death throws seems ridiculous.
We antipodeans celebrate the coming of Spring.
Yet my chickens have almost ceased laying.
I am gathering firewood for winter.
The last of the harvest,
The quinces, are being processed.
It is as bizarre as snow covered Christmas cards.
The Sheepskin
He was tan
And he was a wether.
I say was, because now he's chops in the freezer,
And this rug.
His body will feed a couple for a month or so.
His lovely thick fleece covered skin,
Will be soft beneath the feet of a friend,
Who must stand.
And he was a wether.
I say was, because now he's chops in the freezer,
And this rug.
His body will feed a couple for a month or so.
His lovely thick fleece covered skin,
Will be soft beneath the feet of a friend,
Who must stand.
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