An Unconditional Yes Please

Delighted to get your message this morning. Asking whether you could visit this afternoon. Bring with you a lemon tree. To plant. A replacement for the thoroughly dead specimen in my front garden. Too long a sorry sight. My response? Wow. How wonderful. An unconditional yes please. Thankyou. See you soon.

The Pastel Glory Of Cornflowers

And accompanying it all, the pastel glory of cornflowers. How could I resist?

Via Spring

Weather's warming up. Nights certainly less cool. Summer approaches. Via spring. Soon it will be time for vegetables. Decisions to be made. About variety. Quantity. Layout. Expectations abound. The result of last summer's overwhelming success. And this time I am going to enjoy the fruits of my own directorship. Visually. Gastronomically. Inwardly.

Darkness Assuaged

Oh to be barefoot. Bathed in sun. Wandering the shoreline of Bethells. Freed from the usual confines. Alone with my thoughts. Waves rushing in. The beach's haunting darkness assuaged by today's blue sky.

The Blink Of An Eye

Years melt away. Silently. And not so silently. Gathering speed. Becoming fluid. Slipping between my fingers. Decamping. With no concern for regret. Lament. Or opportunity for modification. Nineteen years is but the blink of an eye.

Pukekos On The Roadside Verge

A dresser top full to overflowing with flowers. En masse. Daffodils, jonquils, gerberas, day lillies, alstromaria, gorgeous creamy white spikey crysanthemums, miniature orchids, birds of paradise. The pleasure is all mine. Pukekos on the roadside verge. My well-ensconced and welcome neighbours. Parsley and primula waving from outside the window. Tall kauri and kaihikatea. Solid sentinels. Guarding the ridge. Intermittent sunshine.

He Who Played Vermeer

Of course, 'tis he who played Vermeer in The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Nice. Very nice.

An Utterly Hideous Crime

What explains this powerful reaction to the death of a young man I never knew? The utterly hideous nature of the crime? The abruptness of his death? The victim's mirrored closeness in age to my own child? That it might have been her? That I might have been the grieving mother? The excitement I imagine accompanied the young Taupo man driving into the big city on a Friday night? An unaccountable 'knowledge' that this was a lovely young man? All of these? None of these? It does not matter. The reaction simply is.

Remembering My Name

Lying in the back of an ambulance,
Having arrived home after five days
In hospital, and while two attendants
Inside the house prepare for me,
Looking through the open doors
At a familiar landscape,
Listening to the reassuring sound of tuis
Taking pleasure in the final stages of the day,
I remember once more my name

August 2005

Regeneration

Outside, lone Mme Alfred Carriere bloom adorns sprawling almost-bare branch. Pink-tinged cream. Hopeful in anticipation of spring. Purple lasiandra proud in hardwon glory. Delicate white primula. Kowhai comfortably settled in. Grass crying out for a lawnmower. Weather unsettled. Open to interpretation. Inside, Pat Barker's Regeneration calls to me from a pile made up of Animal Dreams, About a Boy, A Bit On the Side, Book Lovers Guide to Great Reading.

Do It Again Soon

So nice to have you here. A visit instigated by yourself. Asleep in the next room. Chicken salad for lunch. Sharing an afternoon film. It doesn't take much to please a mother.

Lest We Forget

On August 6 1945, at 8.15am, a US military aircraft dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The device, containing 20,000 tonnes of TNT, was more than 2,000 times more powerful than any bomb used up until that time. Approximately 45,000 of Hiroshima's 300,000 residents died on the day of the bombing. Those within 500 metres of where the bomb landed were vaporised. It is estimated that 140,000 people lost their lives.

A second, larger, bomb was dropped three days later on the city of Nagasaki. 70,000 people were killed and tens of thousands of others injured.

Inexplicably Comforting

Strange, this feeling. As a white, red-combed rooster struts across the grass verge. Scratches amongst a carpet of leaves under the bare liquid amber. Hoping for grubs. Inexplicably comforting. A little nostalgic. My own chooks. Nests full of incubating eggs. Secreted away in the barn. Or under a hedge. A garden, well-fenced to protect against ravaging poultry marauders. A whole lifetime ago. Or so I thought.

I Love Cotton Sheets!