Delayed Gratification

I mourn for the loss of delayed gratification.
When life was simple and choices few.
When waiting for the next ball or picnic races,
Was exciting.
But we can no longer wait and we needn't.
Our pace increases with the loss of each local service.
No longer doing the weekly shop in the local village.
Time is spent travelling the hundreds of kilometres
To the doctor, dentist even the supermarket.
Local sport, entertainment gone.
Wait for the next blockbuster movie to wend its way to the bush?
Download and watch,
Right now.
My back has moulded into the form,
Of my car's drivers seat.
I have a closer relationship with that, than my hiking boots.
It seems these devourers of time,
Give us less opportunity to enjoy,
The rapture of anticipation.

The turning of the year.

Winter solstice is a memory,
Chickens resume their work after a short recess.
The firewood in the shed slowly diminishes,
And the goats are coming into their milk of Imbolc.
The washing hangs,
On every available hook or rail, before the fire,
And steamy eucalyptus is helping to clear our blocked sinuses.
Finances and impending tax returns are discussed,
As well as the excursions planned for the rest of the year.
Now at this midpoint,
No Yule cleansing fires here,
Yet we still take stock of what has passed thus far.
And look optimistically towards the birth of light,
And the rest of the year.

Cider Clock

Blop, blop, blop!
Time is measured in my kitchen,
By the,
Blop, blop, blop!
Cider slowly fermenting.
Gases gradually expanding out the air-lock.
I know that eventually it will slow,
And when I come to bottling.
There shall only be the
Tock, tock!
Of the kitchen clock,
To remind me of mortality.