Being Busy

Being busy these days. It's so easy.

Some days it's overwhelming; email, texts, blogs, social networking; catching up.

But like the slow food campaigns, today I'm going slow, and enjoying that; the sun slants in, the dog's in her basket near my feet, my wife's preparing another wedding. That makes for a good day. 








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Autumn Days

Autumn days here, warm with that cool breeze cutting in from the sea. A BBQ day in England, that sort of temperature, the low 20's centigrade. I've just lit the fire, not for a BBQ but the indoor wood combustion stove. It gets cool here quickly in the late afternoon, and this house can get cold. The stove's brilliant for slow cooking. We often cook ahead, preparing meals for the week, sometimes only for tomorrow's breakfast. I like it, it's light cooking, even. More natural. Perhaps it's the tending of the fire, not too quiet, not too active. The waft of the food as it cooks, gentles its way down the corridor to here where I type. The sun's slanting in too. The dog waits patient in her little basket. She knows dinner for her is soon.

River Changes

Weather's getting warmer here. The Hindmarsh River will soon not get to reach the sea as drier, hotter weather and irrigation take their toll. In the last few weeks the mouth of the river has moved quite dramatically, first to the left, then to the right. Those serpentine curls I so love.The pelican's moved on. Nothing stays the same. Reminds me how much of my life I've lived in rigid ways, the should's, the critic's rarely silent voice (s), the 'doing being' rather than being.

The beginnings of a poem

She waves her turquoise hand
an inflection with the breeze.

Door Days

Creative Writing Ink - Writing Prompt: September 27th
The old door, half ajar, a darkened space you love
to photograph, have to! Number twenty seven, a few short steps
from the corner, the spidery cracked cement of the old town
you'd seen in a dream when you were younger
here right now so that you must stop shake your head
knock gentle on the door peer in
hesitate on the step the place in-between
excited uncertain push the door more
breathe in the smell of books, damp,  paper yellowing with age
tobacco smoke, look at the old man paintings
on walls that seem to seem to stoop
just as you raised your camera
That sudden flash, tears quicker than thought.

home

There are two Southern Right whales off the coast here, in the bay about 200 metres off Seal Rock (Port Elliot, South Australia). A mother and her calf. Over the last dozen or so years whales have started coming back here in the winter before returning to Antarctic waters in September. So these two are late in leaving. It may be that the mother is waiting for her calf to put on more weight.


Nearby is Victor Harbor, which in the 1800's was a whaling port. or a long time whales, having been mercilessly hunted, stopped coming here.



Their return  speaks of their deep intelligence, the deep mystery of life, places of home known so deeply, even when not visited for a century and more.



No wonder we watch spell bound. Perhaps there's an opportunity to return to wonder in life?

Bubbled

I tell myself I've moved on
gone beyond that old refrain
walked the long lone bridge
away from the clouds

of our unbecoming
you said

your body's silky touch
silver Celtic brooch

moon sung white skin

linger in my mind
no matter how hard I try
the bridge that stretches
and now divides
still unites the you that I knew

with the me who walks

so that I must get off the road
walk the beach let the sea
cool my feet put my hands in the clouds
let the water rush over and around me

sky lit, washed, tidal.

Stillness

Stillness
You always hinted you’d leave
I never heard that then
missed the cues
the little twist of the mouth
far away look
head turned away
words askew
as if carried by another current
a shore only you could land on.

Blue Tongued Day: Creative Writing Ink photo of August 3

Sky Fields

She took him to the edge of the field
where the blue flowers had begun their bloom

He was blind. She moved his hand
to one of the flowers. He sighed as his fingers

first one then another, touched the outburst
of blue; a shiver ran up his spine; a lone tear

bubbled. How many are here he asked. Enough
she said and moved his hand to where there

there were more. I can feel them going into the earth
and talk with the air; they are rich with sun

He stayed still, quiet now so she steadied him
her hands on his back and shoulder. The land

tilts, he said. I can hear the clouds. There are people
buried here, close, long ago. This is a dreamers

sky road that goes past the trees and the mound.
The earth remembers. Yes she said, you are right

here you are buried, here you return.

Writing Exercixe: Creative Writing Ink (Ireland)

How many shadows to a life?

Creative Writer Ink Photo

Lung Days

Illness crowding your last days
frail skin that awful dullled
grey and you sleeping, lights still on

I dabbed your forehead with your favourite essence:
vanilla, organic, fresh, buoyant,
eased back your hair and you sitrred,

the faintest of smiles, breathed
a deep thick rattle. I held your hand
like a chicken's foot you'd once said

and we'd laughed, let your humour carry us
tidal, willed ebbing towards that other shore.
I want to tell you now, I've gone back

Those old places, rocks, stones, somewhere circles
lain by the water's edge, let the wind carry my cries
remembered how you'd talk, head to one side

the camel cigarettes, unfiltered, the way you'd lived, died
pulled off the oxygen mask, let go, ebbed.

Keith mac Fhigheadair