Little Pony Little Rider

Such a tiny pony.
Black as coal,
Shimmering and glossy,
His coat beckons my fingers to caress it.
Thick and warm.
He nuzzles my hand with his velvet nose.
On his back a tiny rug and saddle,
And proudly sitting tall,
Feet in stirrups,
Reins held confidently,
A small blonde boy.
They turn and take their leave,
And 'bob, bob, bobbing',
Trot away.

Sick in the country

Sick in the country means:
I was really lucky that,
Yes they could fit me in,
To see the doctor,
TODAY.
Driving two hundred and ten kilometres,
Down a winding, mountain road.
From one thousand metres to sea level,
On sixty ks an hour.
I was sick before I left home.
But much sicker by the time I got back.
Still very pleased,
To see the doctor,
TODAY!

Natural Cycles vs reality of life in the21st Century

The cycles of birth, growth and death cannot be escaped from,
But they may be morphed.
I plant my garlic in April and my tomatoes in November.
Commercial growers in their irrigated, temperature-regulated greenhouses,
Plant any time of the year.
My veggies are in soil enriched with manure and compost,
Mulched with old straw.
Commercial veggies may not even have their feet in the earth,
But in an NPK chemical-cocktail.
My fruit feels the cold of frosts, moisture of rain,
And has the light of the Sun and Moon on its flesh.
Commercial Fruit, gassed, waxed and polished is stored the long year.

And while I like to follow the patterns of nature,
As a human being:
I still use artificial light to stay up later than my body finds healthy.
I travel  in a carbon-spewing vehicle much faster than my two legs can transport me.
I regulate my behaviour to the machinations of  human society,
And bow to the responsibilities of its membership.
I work in an air-conditioned, artificially-lit and computerised building.
I buy products wrapped in packaging that takes an eon to decompose.
I follow like a sheep, the commercialised festivals of the year,
All of which I abhor.
I am a consumer!

How to reclaim the natural cycles of being a human animal?

The visitor

We have a visitor today.
My children's madness begins subtly.
They actually help to tidy their rooms,
In anticipation.
Once everything is prepared they became fractious.
When is he coming?
Distraction comes in baking sugary offerings,
Drawing and colouring,
Or finding a quiet corner to continue reading.
Then at last ten minutes before expected,
The car comes up the drive.
Kisses and embraces and presents distributed.
The volume gets louder.
After a cup of tea and chattering conversations,
The visitor and mass of children retire to the lounge room.
Then the wild rumpus really begins.
The climbing, the dressing up, the dancing about to loud music.
Voices becoming more shrill as the excitement builds.
Then there are the minor squabbles, tears and retribution.
One returns to a quiet corner to continue reading.

We have a visitor and my children go crazy.

Book

I take in long drafts of the familiar smell,
Paper and fresh print.
Hear the crack of the paperback's spine.
Feel the  texture,
Of not quite smooth paper,
Beneath my resting hand.
The grease of my fingers,
Provide just enough friction to turn a page.
Everything is crisp and new.
Unspoiled, untainted.
I love the entirety of this sensual, tactile experience.
The opening of a new book

Aspies Shopping

We don't really like to browse.
There maybe something in that shop we really like and won't be allowed to have.
We will not be able to stop thinking about it.
Mum likes that Hippy shop.
Neither of us like the smells in there.
Patchouli Mum says.
She knows because she has the nose that knows.
Just like me.
Mum likes to talk to her friends,
She meets on the street.
I don't.
I just want to get on with it.
Whatever 'it' is supposed to be.
I pull at her hand and don't acknowledge the person she is talking too.
Sometimes I get scared that there might be people in a shop that I don't know.
It is getting late for morning tea.
My tummy is rumbling.
I ask Mum the time.
I was right we are late.
Mum buys me a pie for lunch.
What I really want is a cake,
And she knows it.
Mum is not surprised when I cover my ears,
Because someone is using a power saw.
Driving home I'm thirsty from the pie.
Mum will not stop to buy a drink.
She just wants to get home.
Neither Mum nor I like shopping.

Spinning Harriet's Fleece.

Harriet's fleece has the tips of her lamb-hood.
It has been sorted into its colours,
White, grey, chocolate and black.
She would have been a cull,
But I took her home along with this first fleece.
She is a pure Merino.
Her fleece is fine.
It is sound and of good character.
Her wool will be soft.
Not the first choice of home spinners.
Who prefer first crosses with long staples and higher micron.
I don't care because I am learning.
I have spun alpaca and pre-carded, dyed batts of sheep's wool.
This is my first experience using the drum carder on raw fleece.
'Shuck, shuck, shuck' goes the treadle.
I become mesmerized by the repetitive actions of foot and hands.
Harriet's fleece is greasy and makes my skin soft with lanolin.
It spins fine.
I ponder how many threads I shall have to ply?
Will it break in the process? 
And what shall I make with her balls of wool?
'Shuck, shuck, shuck.'