Now is the time of roses,
Heady scent held in the air,
Upright in oh-so-neat gardens
Or rambled across disrepair.
Now, when the sun tilts southwards
And the bumble-bees buzz with delight,
The afternoon warmth tends to languid
And gently gives way to cool night.
Now the plum tree grows heavy
With fruit filling fast, and I plan,
The harvest a month or two henceforth;
The sticky-sweet work of plum jam.
Now, when the sun rises early,
Wattle-birds cackle their call,
Life sings of summer's approaching
And I hum in tune with it all.
I am writing again.
Small, delicate things. Translucent shells of meaning that curl, fragile, in your palm.
Pebbles of expression, worn smooth by the passage of life, immutable as the river
Singing its cadence to the sea. A single sigh, echo lingering, of my voice.
Perhaps there shall be landscapes of language carried within me once more,
Should I nurture these delicate seeds of verbosity, 'til towering giants rise,
Seeking light in my dreaming, a canopy of cacophony.
Wisps of words swirl gently, curling as fog in the low morning light,
Rising above the river running through my soul, to burn away
And drift, invisible, to the ever-endless sky.
Let me tell you about the mountain.
Mount Wellington rises up in great leaps and curves from the indigo waters of the Derwent estuary. Crowned with the striking geometry of granite pillars, the mountain shelters the little city climbing up around its feet, buffering us from the frigid force of the Roaring 40s.
With river below and wind-swept granite above, the mountain stretches out and up, swathed in the umber-green of eucalypts and heath-lands. But hidden in its folds and hollows are the sparkling greens of rainforest fragments. Gullies hung with tree-ferns usher through chattering rivulets, clear as glass; rock outcrops hung, cathedral-like, with epiphytes and an extravagance of moss. We stumble upon these ancient shrines to water on our wanders across the mountain's weathered slopes.
Hours vanish as track loops upon track, leading us straining up the steeper slopes and slipping down rocky screes, listening to the wattlebirds and fairy wrens scold our passing, and the wallabies crashing through the undergrowth in urgent evasion. Each time we leave,feet heavy and spirits raised, we know a new adventure awaits upon those puckered slopes.
Happy equinox/Easter/Mabon/Ostara to all, and to all a great 4 day weekend!
Balance on our planet's ourubic journey,
Equality in night and day, as here
The light receeds into the winter,
Autumnal counter-point to the rites of spring
My culture celebrates with symbols of fecundity
In near-forgotten reference to the circuits
Of the moon as we turn (ellipse)around the sun.
This afternoon, the dying light of Summer clung thick and heavy in the unexpectedly humid air. Unprepared to watch it's passing passively from my air-conditioned office, I arranged a rapid departure care of my husband-chauffeur and high-tailed it to New Farm for an emergency art fix, coffee and a walk in the park. The Brisbane Powerhouse provided both the coffee and art (in the form of the Walkley press photo exhibition. Kate Geraghty's essay on euthanasia brought me to tears) to sate my cravings.
As the sun sank closer towards Mt. Coot-tha we walked, hand in hand, around the rose gardens in New Farm Park. Summer's heat is not yet sufficiently past for the roses to recover, yet most every plant held at least a handful of scraggly blossoms. I buried my face in the biggest, softest blooms, cupping them against my skin and drinking in their gentle fragrance, redolent of Spring gentle dreaming.
We drove home in the lengthening light, absorbing the awakening of our senses. Once we pulled into the driveway I dashed inside to procure the camera then out into the garden in an attempt to capture this ephemeral beauty; the last of the Summer light.
She did wonder how much it all was truly affecting her. Some days she felt perfectally ok and others she could barely drag herself out of bed. After a rough week last week Toni somehow managed to haul herself off to a rave on Saturday night and not come home until 5 o'clock in the morning. Sure she'd felt pretty ordinary for the next few days, but seeing Infected Mushrrom playing live was worth every ache and exhausted day afterwards. Mind you, Toni always has been stubborn, so pushing her body further for a night of fun is completely in character. Her only concession to illness was staying sober for the night, though that was made up for on Sunday night with no restraint shown towards a nice pinot.
As much as she hated to admit it, Toni knew at heart that ill health was knocking her around. Sometimes the little things did it, like being put back on anti-depressants to manage the symptoms. The hardest thing to take though was that she'd been so close to good health. After several years of frequent illness and chronic stress the girl was finally getting on top of things. Truth be told, Toni hadn't felt this fabulous in five years or so. How cruel it then was to slip back down again to serious illness, and how bleak the promise of a life-time of medication.
Currently, our girl's just taking each day as it comes. Some are not so good, but on the whole she's fine and most certainly life could be worse. Her work has been extraordinarly supportive, thoguh the finances less so since she ran out of sick leave. She's been spoiling herself too, with bright bunches of chrysanthemums, cheese and chocolate. She's been spoiling the boy as well, of course, as he's had too many late nights giving massages and cuddles and keeping insomnia company. He's done the dishes an awful lot too, as Toni's been quite the demon in the kitchen lately. Cooking makes her feel better, it requires enough mental attention to be distracting without being draining and provides a creative outlet. Best of all it means she gets to eat all sorts of delicious goodies, though consequently she's running out of clothes that fit.
The week is short and she's grateful for it when every day seems uncannily long. Outside of work her hours are filled with blood tests, trips to the doctor and physio, though at least her back has stopped hurting now. Don't worry, she's still spending hours in front of the computer (too much of it spent incompetenly "fixing" a hardware problem that crashes Photoshop) and relaxing. Toni's decided she needs a little time away from alcohol though. She hasn't had a hangover in over a year, but it's the frequency that's caused concern and when a week without is the the biggest break in a while, drinking needs addressing. (I assume I've alluded that she adores aliteration earlier.) Perhaps she imbibes like her user-name a little too frequently. Regardless, she feels a respite can't do her any harm and added alcohol to her list of (temporarily) banned substances.
The main thing is that our girl and her boy are ok. The novelty of rubbing his fuzzy head had not yet worn off, though he's not complaining. All this health concern has provided an excellent distraction from the demands of university (her boy's been a bit of a slack bastard), but he'll still get full marks from her.
On Saturday the sky came down, sudden in its heaviness, and we watched in quiet worship of the water gathering, pooling up and spreading over the browning world. All day we sung the praise of the rain in our primordial rebirth; hummed with the voice and wings of thousands set free by the warm arpeggio of rain. In the morrow the air thickened, interminable until the fading memory of March. ( Read more... )
The first of the summer storms rolled over the mountian yesterday, two months ahead of schedule. The first summer storm shook the jacarandas, braches heavy with buds, and the silky oaks, blazing yellow in the afternoon light. The crows bowed their heads for mercy: too early. We watched the clouds in earnest, willing for long, heavy rain but not the hail promised in her greeneyed hue.
She rolled in from the west, full of promise and lay close to the ground. She came in fast, with the wind before her and a strange striped front, as she crossed the mountain. The first summer storm looked like a doozy and carried a warning in her path. Silence struck before the winds swept in and the last lorikeets raced for shelter.
The first storm of the summer fizzled right before she hit; the city's heat stealing her thunder and turning her 'round to the north, leaving only desperate rain that the ground drank up and cool, blue skies that gently drifted into night.