Today I execute a watercolour.
I don't know how,
Or what Devine intervention,
Causes my brush to mix and choose just the right colours.
Stroke rapidly onto the card with just the right shades and forms.
It is like magic.
How fluidly the process progresses.
I feel free and uninhibited by any potential failure.
My eye captures the form in my mind.
My hand replicates it well enough on my paper.
I love this feeling.
Creating something beautiful.
Perhaps it is a form of arrogance,
This assuredness that all will go well.
Who cares?
I relax and enjoy the journey.
Sunday, 30 August 2015
Another Grey Wet Day
Chilled to the marrow,
Cold weighs heavy on every joint.
So in bed I sit and write.
Thermals on,
And my 'hottie' my best companion.
This torpor,
With only my mind wandering unfettered.
It roams outside in the natural landscape.
A montane heath,
Delicate herbs and spiky shrubs,
A babbling rock strewn cascade,
Round lichen covered boulders of granite.
My body in malaise,
Indoors.
My mind suffocating,
Gasps for the reviving air of outside.
Cold weighs heavy on every joint.
So in bed I sit and write.
Thermals on,
And my 'hottie' my best companion.
This torpor,
With only my mind wandering unfettered.
It roams outside in the natural landscape.
A montane heath,
Delicate herbs and spiky shrubs,
A babbling rock strewn cascade,
Round lichen covered boulders of granite.
My body in malaise,
Indoors.
My mind suffocating,
Gasps for the reviving air of outside.
Fancy Dancer
"So what's up with him?"
Gossip,
But with genuine concern.
"The fancy dancer"
The main street of this small country town,
Isn't big enough for more news like this.
"Geez, not him too"
Cos she's got the asbestos one,
And this one's dad has the melanoma.
" It's not looking good."
Topic of conversation,
Too regular for comfort.
Stark this reality,
When everyone knows everyone's business.
So now our town's business?
Daffodil Day,
The Biggest Morning Tea,
And the town's inaugural,
Relay For Life.
Gossip,
But with genuine concern.
"The fancy dancer"
The main street of this small country town,
Isn't big enough for more news like this.
"Geez, not him too"
Cos she's got the asbestos one,
And this one's dad has the melanoma.
" It's not looking good."
Topic of conversation,
Too regular for comfort.
Stark this reality,
When everyone knows everyone's business.
So now our town's business?
Daffodil Day,
The Biggest Morning Tea,
And the town's inaugural,
Relay For Life.
Saturday, 29 August 2015
The Wombat
Today we sent a wombat to heaven.
He stumbled blindly in the harsh daylight.
His nocturnal clock out of whack.
This a clear sign.
The scourge?
Mange from a now fox-less burrow.
I have been guilty of verbally abusing wombats.
They make night drives a heart stopping event.
Their choice of home often inconvenient,
And their aerial ablutions on farm equipment irritating.
( How can such a stubby legged animal defecate at such heights?)
Suburbites have no idea of the challenges of wombats.
Yet when you are surprised by one out grazing at night.
It's jaunty jog, digging and snuffling about, are endearing.
Supine baby wombats with their soft leathery pads and chubby bellies melt your heart.
Today was this wombat's last day.
He was huge and powerful,
But so fragile.
Bothered by our yapping foxie,
He barely moved away.
His thick winter coat encrusted and scabby.
We would not let him suffer the indignity of a slow death.
Damn mangy foxes.
He stumbled blindly in the harsh daylight.
His nocturnal clock out of whack.
This a clear sign.
The scourge?
Mange from a now fox-less burrow.
I have been guilty of verbally abusing wombats.
They make night drives a heart stopping event.
Their choice of home often inconvenient,
And their aerial ablutions on farm equipment irritating.
( How can such a stubby legged animal defecate at such heights?)
Suburbites have no idea of the challenges of wombats.
Yet when you are surprised by one out grazing at night.
It's jaunty jog, digging and snuffling about, are endearing.
Supine baby wombats with their soft leathery pads and chubby bellies melt your heart.
Today was this wombat's last day.
He was huge and powerful,
But so fragile.
Bothered by our yapping foxie,
He barely moved away.
His thick winter coat encrusted and scabby.
We would not let him suffer the indignity of a slow death.
Damn mangy foxes.
Simple Acts
Mirror polished to perfect reflection,
Wind scented, sun dried sheets.
Favourite cotton shorts, neatly patched,
Weed-free flower bed,
Round bellied, satiated poddy lamb.
Clear kitchen bench,
Full fire-wood basket,
Milky cup of Earl Grey,
Fresh cut narcissus in a jar,
Vacuumed bedroom floor,
Toast with melted butter and Vegemite,
Kids reading or on adventures with soft plush friends,
No appointments,
Just the time to take care.
Wind scented, sun dried sheets.
Favourite cotton shorts, neatly patched,
Weed-free flower bed,
Round bellied, satiated poddy lamb.
Clear kitchen bench,
Full fire-wood basket,
Milky cup of Earl Grey,
Fresh cut narcissus in a jar,
Vacuumed bedroom floor,
Toast with melted butter and Vegemite,
Kids reading or on adventures with soft plush friends,
No appointments,
Just the time to take care.
Monday, 24 August 2015
Sometimes you just stop.
It creeps up slowly.
It is not exactly a malaise.
Your spirit remains intact.
You are not feeling hopeless or despairing.
Yet you are simply,
Not feeling.
But as you must,
Do something.
You do what is closest to hand.
Write these observations,
Into poetry.
Sit, not comfortably,
On the hearth rug.
Your outside coat,
Still on.
Your outside shoes also,
Still on.l
Ignore the twinges of pain your back,
And the pins and needles in your feet.x
The fire's warmth compensates.
You have one focus,
The task at hand.
He has made you a cup of tea,
But you have insufficient will,
To move your hand to take it up.
Now he has asked you a question.
But you can't think,
To make any decision.
This is what it is like when you are full.
Detached!
It is not exactly a malaise.
Your spirit remains intact.
You are not feeling hopeless or despairing.
Yet you are simply,
Not feeling.
But as you must,
Do something.
You do what is closest to hand.
Write these observations,
Into poetry.
Sit, not comfortably,
On the hearth rug.
Your outside coat,
Still on.
Your outside shoes also,
Still on.l
Ignore the twinges of pain your back,
And the pins and needles in your feet.x
The fire's warmth compensates.
You have one focus,
The task at hand.
He has made you a cup of tea,
But you have insufficient will,
To move your hand to take it up.
Now he has asked you a question.
But you can't think,
To make any decision.
This is what it is like when you are full.
Detached!
Blue versus Grey
It was two things,
The blueness,
Between billowing clouds,
That slowly sailed across the sky,
And the warmth of the sunshine,
That kissed the bare skin of my face and hands.
It was these,
That lifted every aspect of my being.
The soft dry ground on which I lay.
And the caressing breeze,
That played like a lover with my unfastened hair.
Added to the effect.
I could smell the familiarity of frost-seared grass,
And hear the country sounds,
Of those on hoof, paw and wing.
And I felt calm.
But all too soon,
Despite the patches of blue,
The sun's warming rays were taken prisoner.
By a cold grey cloud.
I was suddenly frozen to the core.
My idyll broken,
I went inside,
To the warmth of the fire.
The blueness,
Between billowing clouds,
That slowly sailed across the sky,
And the warmth of the sunshine,
That kissed the bare skin of my face and hands.
It was these,
That lifted every aspect of my being.
The soft dry ground on which I lay.
And the caressing breeze,
That played like a lover with my unfastened hair.
Added to the effect.
I could smell the familiarity of frost-seared grass,
And hear the country sounds,
Of those on hoof, paw and wing.
And I felt calm.
But all too soon,
Despite the patches of blue,
The sun's warming rays were taken prisoner.
By a cold grey cloud.
I was suddenly frozen to the core.
My idyll broken,
I went inside,
To the warmth of the fire.
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