Wool Classing

You must think quickly.
Be decisive.
Enough Butts, everything ready?
They've started.
Music's up loud and the bellies are off.
The first fleece hits the table
You inspect while you skirt.
Rousabout rolls it toward you.
Your cold, early morning fingers,
Enjoy its warmth.
Check the staple length.
Sound?
Yes, mentally note the VM.
Pick your bin,
Tentatively, 
It may change when a few more are off.
The pace is rapid.
Fleeces lined up at the end of the table.
The rousabout throws amiss.
The pressure builds.
The lines are now in place,
but its go go go!
Until the cut-out is announced
By the cutting off of Slim in mid-song. 

Small Hauntings

There are fragments of memory that come back and bite,
They are just a flash.
Could be a whiff of fragrance, a gesture or a half forgotten song,
But they have tendrils that drag you right back,
To the moments when you can feel,
That part of your heart,
That is tender and unhealed.
The scar will not, quite close over.

I call these moments ghosts.
For when they visit,
A coldness washes over me,
And I know that I am haunted.

Yet as time passes,
Ghosts become bored.
Your life fills with other responsibilities and distractions.
And your visitations decline.
And you are close to happy again.  

Newton's Third and Aspergers

Like Newton's third law,
For periods of excessive socialisation,
There must be periods of solitude.
For periods of stimulation and activity,
Periods of rest.
For periods where your responsibilities are for the welfare of others,
Periods dedicated exclusively to your own 'special interests'.
To not adhere to the law,
Will result in physical and emotional chaos,
Characterised by meltdown or shutdown.

Quite simple really!
'

Still Grey

A fortnight is a long time ,
To miss the sun.
Not so much the warmth.
Nor that its absence has brought incessant rain.
It is just the insipid grey.
That drags your spirits down,
To the bottom of your muddy shoes.

Maybe tommorrow,
As I'm opening my longing eyes,
Through my window,
Will come,
That welcome blue.
Herald of the sun.

But for now,
It is a conjured daydream,
To cling to,
And keep gloom at bay.
For still,
It is grey.

 

Invigoration

What is it about the combination of wind, rain and outdoor activity,
That causes such invigoration of the soul?
I was very tired,
Up far too late last night.
Yet,
Being out in the paddock,
Moving soggy goats and their shelter.
Pulling down electric fences,
And tramping through the paddocks,
Just made me feel alive.
My nose was runny and wet cool hairs streaked across my face.
My clunking gumboots even had a leak and a stone.
Yet,
I had a smile in my heart.

ANZAC

I listened and my eyes could not resist,
The squeezing pressure of unbeckoned tears;
My chest, the choking breathlessness,
That another's distress invokes involuntarily.
The constable in impeccable blue chokes on the words.
Pauses to regain composure and reads,
A diary entry from an ANZAC,
His Great Grandfather Dudley,
Who just over one hundred years ago tramped the same street,
On which I now stood listening.
Dudley was there at the first,
0430 25th April 1915 ANZAC Cove.
He writes of the solemn trepidation as they prepare to disembark.
The quiet.
They fix bayonets.
Then as the operation commences the ear-splitting racket of shelling and Lizzie's guns.
He is in the boat  and sees ahead the cliffs in the dawn light.
He feels the fear and excitement.
They will be the first Australians to land and fight on foreign soil.

Already they are dying around him.
Seven men hit in his boat.
The neighbouring sunk and men in the brine.
His boat hits the rocky shore.
They disembark and he is up to his neck.
Somehow he clambers ashore.
His first sight the ragged piles of dead comrades.
Still warm and without the opportunity,
After all the months of training,
To fire a single shot at the enemy.  

Being friends with an Aspie

We can look a real friend in the eye.
They know that we are in earnest when we speak,
And accept our quirks,
Even if they do not always like or understand them.
They will try hard not to manipulate us.
And will stand by us when we are scorned by others.
They understand that,
Our motivations may be self absorbed,
But we are not malicious.
Real friends are gentle,
When we are fragile.
They speak clearly and concisely,
And try not to use confusing body language.
When we waffle on,
They remind us respectfully.
They don't roll their eyes and feign interest.
They try never to leave us confused.
Aspies are loyal and true,
But we take a huge gamble,
When investing in a friend.