heading for wherever we believe home to be.
Red leaves like mouths in the gutter.
The hard-earned flight of a large butterfly.
Bellbirds tune the air. Among berries,
the scuttle of waxeyes. The shift of wind
in the silver birches.
The smell of fermenting plums.
This urge to feed, to brightly let go,
to burst into death.
ABM has just brought me a pre-dinner wine. Another Sunday is coming to an end.
Today puts on its coat,
gets ready to leave. But
before it turns
to lime, a layer
for some future
dig, I need to state: I was here.
I saw. I lived it through
and did not give up.
Son C was here for the weekend. It was good to see him again - he seems so big, so tall and self-assured. While here he caught up with his two brothers - M who is here most days painting in his studio downstairs. And S in Japan. Skype is the most amazing thing. We can talk to a drowsy S in Kyoto before he heads off for his morning shower. And he can tell me what C texted him on the computer a minute before that.
"I'm not sure where ABM and C went," I say.
"They've gone to collect C's car," S in Japan tells me in NZ!
I'm looking forward to going down to the Southland Arts Festival in Invercargill in May to help run a poetry workshop down there with Cilla McQueen and to take part on the Saturday night in a poetry reading with other poets - Emma Neale, Richard Reeve, Michael Harlow, Peter Olds, Jenny Powell-Chalmers, Jeanne Bernhardt, David Howard.
So, even though summer has come to an end, there are good things to look forward to in the autumn. Not least, the Indian Summer we are enjoying right now, with warm days and balmy nights. Long may it continue.