Monday, 6 August 2007
I have been writing a little bit of poetry lately. This is gratifying, because for some time now it has been a struggle to do so.
I think since the launch of 'made for weather',
the 'third book' in me has begun to stir. Dusty and flyaway-dry as tiny carrot seeds, the poems need sowing into tidy rows, and watered.
Son C has just been offered a job on the West Coast. Think green ferns and rain.
Think spectacular views of mountains and forest. (Above is a photo he took when working near there last year.)
Although it will be sad if he accepts the job and leaves home once again, it is good that he will have a permanent job. (It also means I need to get a hurry on and finish the jersey I am knitting him.)
I no longer need to walk part of the way to work now that I have got my car back from M&K. I miss the walks. Maybe I can go for an early morning walk before breakfast. Oh but these cold mornings! It is so hard to drag one's body from a warm bed and brave the frosty dew. The damp mist. And there have been rumours of snow on the higher hills. That means a thin, bitter wind trawling the streets tomorrow. Will the temptation to roll over and allow sleep to hold me a little longer prove too much?
Usually I look sideways at Spring's imminent arrival with its insistent new growth and rampant sap. Too much to clear and trim. But this year, after a harsher winter than usual, I find I am looking at the kowhai outside our kitchen window
with more anticipation than usual. I imagine the golden, bell-like flowers among the green leaves, and fallen ones lying on the lawn below, mashed by the lawn-mower; the smell of freshly cut grass lingering in the doorway ...
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