The Presence Of Worms

Outside. First time in a fortnight. Glorious day. Under the shade of the fig tree. Seeing all the small jobs that need doing. Deadhead calendulas, cornflowers and campanula. Remove gone-to-seed-prematurely rocket and ready-to-eat beetroot. Renew saucer of beer (deadly slug bait). Water. Water. Water. Storing the knowledge for later.
Observing bright orange-beaked male blackbird. Digging worms out of the lawn. Every attempt successful. I wonder: Can he sense the presence of worms?

*artwork by Degas

Too Long

Quite remarkable. What a revival of courage there is to be won from a clear, slim necked Corona bottle. It’s been too long. Why is that, I wonder?

* artwork by Modigliani

Open Your Arms

This love, this love has messed you around.

(with apologies to The Editors)

* artwork by Frances Hodgkins

Like Polishing Firewood

Amu's soft mouth would twist into a small bitter smile at the memory . . . . she had permitted herself to be so painstakingly decorated before being led to the gallows. Seems so absurd. So futile. Like polishing firewood.

Arundhati Roy
The God of Small Things

Sorry Musing

Out of nowhere, the thought came to me this morning: Had I been able to continue my studies I would have graduated this month with a BSocP. And I am suddenly bereft.

The Parrots of Telegraph Hill

Seems I shall simply have to wait for this to be released on DVD.

In Us And Not Behind Us

Time. . .comes and goes in waves and folds, like water. It flutters and sifts like dust; rises, billows, falls back on itself. When a wave breaks the water is not moving; the swell has travelled great distances but only the energy is moving, not the water. Perhaps time moves through us and not us through it. . . . the past is in us and not behind us. Things are never over.

Tim Winton The Turning

And Another

(For Jacq)

Bears no relationship to

I relished your visit. The olives were fantastic. Hit the spot. And conversation? As stimulating as ever. So much ground covered. From Raj yoga to the Grafton childhood of our fathers. TB through applications for another job. A lover's newly-found passion for gardening. A mother's angst. And more. All sans music. Dylan included.

The Creature of My Own Imagination

Though I had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some difference in our opinions on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved it. . . . all this together most grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before and as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past.

Jane Austen Mansfield Park

Yeah, well. . . . .

What can I possibly add?

Te Mata

Up the back of our valley
there's a mountain blue with distance.
All day it gazes down
at our houses by the sea –
tin dinghies becalmed in sun baked back yards
water tanks on wooden towers.
It soars above a boundary fence
to take in the smallest view –
this room whose wide window is as open as the day.
It reads like a half read book
a smoked fish left on the table
as if it were a poem
needing only salt and pepper.

Bob Orr

So Much History

I’m looking at a photograph. Moi. Let’s say, early eighties sometime. Alice’s Puhipuhi house. Visiting for the day? Most likely. Head bowed over a spinning wheel. Hair blonder than it’s been for a good while. One foot on the pedal. Bobbin whirring around and around. Somewhat blurred as a consequence. Pile of raw fleece on the carpet to my left. Green spider plant on a macramé (!) hanger. Hanging from the wall behind me. Two bakelite light switches reflecting the age of the house. Long muslin skirt reflecting a particular phase in my life. Feet, bare of shoes, ensconced in socks. Greeny coloured jersey. Made from that unevenly dyed wool, so favoured once. History. History. History. Gone under the bridge.