Tuesday, November 16, 2004

A Day Like Any Other?

Fuck, you've got to be joking!

Saturday, November 13, 2004

The Next Step Of The Journey

What was it you quoted to me in your last email Jacq?

'With enormous gentleness and clarity, we could look at how weak we are'.

And, I would add, how inclined we are towards comfort.

(A showy display of cornflowers farewells Grace on the next step of her journey)

Thursday, November 11, 2004

A Daughter Moves Out, Again

It's that time again. A daughter moves out. Moves on. I knew it was coming. Sooner or later. How could I not? After all, she's been home for a year. Still, the sadness of loss defies attempts at rationalisation. It's a little like the letting go required for her first day of school. Adjustment will come.

Nothing fits neatly
Into words;
Inarticulate speech
Of the heart.

July 15/2003

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Spring Therapy For Voyeurs

Seasons change. Sunshine hours increase. Temperatures rise. In response, plants grow with fervour. Racing towards an inevitable flowering. For voyeurs, this process has a decidedly therapeutic effect. Not exactly inexplicable but phenomenal. Definitely phenomenal.

Music coming from inside
joins that which flows around me
from sources in this wonderful geography
where I sit with typewriter on knee
capturing some small portion of that
which is my life today.

November 1999

Saturday, November 06, 2004

A Baker's Dozen Of Years

An email attachment arrives this morning. It's me. A previously unseen image. Somewhat scratchy. Mysteriously dark hair? Coming back to myself. After a baker's dozen of years.

Today: a gathering of women. Youthful recollections break through the surface of conversation. Twenty-five years are but yesterday. So little and yet so much changed. The essence of each self retained.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Together I Sat On The Fence

"Come and sit down beside me",
I said to myself,
And although it doesn't make sense,
I held my own hand
As a small sign of trust
And together I sat on the fence.

Michael Leunig

Monday, November 01, 2004

Mine, The Only Hands

Lying in bed this morning, I switched on Concert FM and heard an exquisite sonata by Telemann. Viola da gamba and harpsichord. I cannot say it enticed me to linger between the sheets any longer than usual but it certainly made an occasion of it.

Now, looking out the window as day fades, I am delighted by the small white daisies and yellow buttercups adorning the lawn. The vision amounts to one of those simple pleasures by which an ordinary life is punctuated. A sign of hope juxtaposed against every reason not to hold one's breath in anticipation of change. Signs and pleasures which can all too easily escape notice.

Mine are the only

The feel
Of dear skin


Slowly, life returns to normal. Whatever that means. I am no longer convinced that such a thing even exists. Was I ever?