Sunday, 7 June 2009
Winter is Great
And it was good that it was horridible. I like horridible weather. Of course no-one believes me, but it's true. Winter has really always been my secret, favourite season.
Despite the bitter winds outside, our house was cosy-warm and so I sat and wrote. All day.
I wrote poetry. I would have liked to have written of the moment, but the past kept hauling me back to address some issues.
When R got back from his solitary perambulations of inside urban spaces; such as the Museum (he was a bit lost because golf had been put off for the day) I had to drag myself back from the 1960s so that he had some companionship.
Outside, behind our house, the tops of large pines and eucalyptus trees shimmied in the wind. Tucked in behind a hill, we're sheltered from the southerlies
and attracted by the shelter and various, berried shrubs and trees, birds spent the day leaping and springing from branch to branch. Mostly bellbirds, waxeyes and chaffinches.
I've set out a pie-dish with sugar water for them. So far they haven't discovered it, but once they do, I'm sure they'll make it known to all and sundry in birdworld that it's party time at our place.