poems of whimsy and optimism
We’re outside out of the way on a 38 degree Celsius day playing Scrabble under the pergola, quietly sweating. The cleaners are inside with the aircon on full bore, the rooms a steady 20 degrees. I open the back door, poke my head through: “Would you like a gin and tonic?” I say, half in jest, ” the cricket on in the background?” “Yes,” they nod in approval, “that’d be great.” Hired help sure have it good in this country.
Should I go or should I not?
Too early? Is it sufficiently hot?
Summer’s only five days in.
Should I hit the water? Swim?
Bugger it, I say. Yes! Yes! Yes!
The ocean’s cool and I am blessed.
God’s little acre. At the end of our street.
Me and two others. The beach.
The best bookmark
I ever had
Was a round one
A replica
Of
The Small Faces 1968 album,
Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake;
Of course
It is only good
For circular books
& there aren’t many of those
Around.
The cat is due for its needle
And cannot be found.
She knows something is up
& has gone to ground.
We shake the tin of biscuits.
That old familiar din
Proves no pied piper to her.
She simply is not in.
I heard a clatter in the kitchen one morning
And throwing the door open
Saw a rat
Whose tail had been caught
Rattling around the lino
In crazed circles
Trailing the clunky trap
Like a chariot
Does she remember?
When she snapped the mouse
In her jaw and dismembered it
One hour ago.
Does she remember?
Does she remember?
Does she understand
When I sweep her off my lap
When she nips my hand,
The hand that feeds her?
Does she understand?
Ahh, She’s only a cat.
You make allowances for that.
You Remind Me of Magpies
You remind me of magpies when you walk, she says, the way they swish their wings when they come into land like the legs of your cords brushing against each other
